The Co-op

Chapter Twenty-Eight

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

L A RYNN

His mom’s place ends up being in the same spot I recall it being before, but the manufactured home that once sat here has been entirely replaced by a cute bungalow, painted to match the same deep green as the camp store building. Out front, posted against a small picket fence made of driftwood, sits a sign that says Camp Host.

As we come in through the gate and approach the porch, the grip on my hand gets tighter. He squeezes one extra time when he knocks on the door, though he decides not to wait at all as he opens it and calls out for her.

“I thought you’d value the concept of a door a little bit more,” I mutter to him.

One side of his mouth ticks up before he frowns and looks down the hallway.

“Mom?”

Macy comes bounding for us in excited, long strides, with her face scrunched up in a sob. “Mom, why are you crying?” Deacon asks, horrified.

“I’m just happy, that’s all,” she replies, a mewl escaping her when she hugs both of us tightly. I stand stiffly and try to keep the smile plastered to my face.

“I just thought,” she wails, “I just thought that after your dad—I thought you resented the idea of ever being bound to someone that way. You were so angry and you just hated that I went back or stayed or—” She swipes her hands in the air like whiteboard erasers. “Or whatever it was. I think I thought you didn’t believe in it after that— I’m sorry I’m snotting all over you. ” She brushes off his shirt after hugging me again. “I was always worried you’d never see the merit in finding a real partner, even. Let alone marriage. I just—I’m just so happy for you, baby.”

Deacon swallows. A muscle jumps along his jaw. And then his face fades into a faint smile before he looks back at me, pleading in his stare. He hugs her again and keeps his eyes on mine. “Thank you,” he says. And I know it’s meant for me.

“Come in, come in. Let’s have lunch. They’ve got it handled out there,” she urges.

“Mom, we have to get finished and set things up for the barbecue.”

“Deacon James, you were about to get busy in the camp laundry room. You can afford the time with your mother,” she states firmly. “And I have chili.”

Deacon and I both look at our shoes and I snort out a laugh again. “I’m sorry,” I try to recover.

“Don’t be. It’s not like I don’t know what it’s like, you know,” she replies, hands going to her hips.

“Jesus,” Deacon groans.

“And,” she continues, leveling him with a look, “it’s not like I didn’t know what you two were doing when you were younger, either. Anyone camping here knew. Despite your insistence that you were just buddies , you weren’t exactly discreet.”

“Mom—”

“The shocks on the Bronco and those old trailers weren’t great back then. Anyone passing by could see those things rockin’!” she laughs.

I hope she poisoned the chili. I’d like to die a swift death straightaway.

We slump into a small built-in dinette in her kitchen, and Deacon takes his hand back to bury his face in his palms. I fold and focus on my own in my lap.

“Hold on, let me get us some lunch and then I want to hear everything!” Macy chimes happily before she starts collecting dishes and stirring a pot on the stove. Deacon nudges me with an elbow and mouths I’m so sorry, silently. I have to stifle another laugh. It’s okay, I mime back.

Macy slides bowls of chili in front of us and a tray of corn bread muffins before she sits down with a flourish. She’s got the same hair as him, streaked with gray, and something does a flip inside me when I imagine Deacon’s ever going that direction, with strands of silver. Macy’s eyes are lighter, though, and wrinkled in a way that lets you know she doesn’t shy away from a laugh.

“Thank you, this looks delicious.” I nod down to the chili. It smells heavily spiced and perfectly sweet, like a hint of cinnamon or brown sugar maybe. One bite makes me hum, soothing me from within. My ratcheted nerves from before start to calm.

“Eat, eat. But talk at the same time. Tell me everything,” she coaxes. “God, you’re gorgeous,” she says to me when I’ve taken another bite. She backhands Deacon across the bicep. “Deacon, isn’t she stunning?”

“Ma, please. I’m genuinely begging you, calm down,” Deacon pleads. “And yes, I know she is.” He says it a little miserably. He keeps his focus on his bowl.

Warmth floods my system, pooling in my cheeks.

“Maybe she can get you to cut your hair,” Macy replies. “He needs it cleaned up, doesn’t he?” She directs the question at me.

I swallow and look back at him. “Maybe a little?” I shrug and he narrows his eyes and shakes his head. “But not too much. I like it this way,” I relent. My fingertips itch with wanting to slide and curl into it, with wanting to feel it under my chin, his cheek resting over my heart. I know exactly how it would feel.

He pauses and grins crookedly. “Thanks, Larry.”

Macy slaps him across the back of the head. “You cannot still call her Larry. You can’t call your wife Larry. It’s a terrible nickname and I don’t even know how you came up with it.”

“First of all, ow. Secondly, maybe what I call her at home isn’t appropriate for your ears.”

She slaps him again and I shove an elbow into his ribs. He rubs at his side and sucks his teeth. “Don’t bully me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say flatly with a smirk. “Do you even remember when you gave me that nickname?”

“Of course I do,” he says. “I remember everything.”

And that simplicity again makes me lightheaded. I wonder if he remembers the time we left a window open in the Bronco and a seagull few in. How he batted it away with panicking hands while we both screamed. How hard we laughed afterward, naked in the back seat together.

I wonder if he remembers me telling him I loved him. How loud his silence was after I said it.

He grabs a corn muffin and butters it generously, passing it to me before grabbing another one for himself.

“It started as a joke, but once it irritated her enough I just sorta ran with it back then,” he’s telling his mom now. He slants a glance my way. “But I suppose you’re right, probably shouldn’t call my wife Larry.” He searches my face, the words my wife bouncing through the caverns of my brain. Something unfurls in my chest so fast it’s painful.

I look away and search for a subject change before Macy saves me the task. “So, tell me how this”—she points between the two of us—“transpired. This time, I mean.”

“Well, she came back for the First Street house, and—”

“Let LaRynn tell it. We women know how to tell a story better,” Macy cuts him off. He lets out a weary sound.

“Um. Well,” I begin, swallowing my bite of corn bread and trying to piece it together quickly, to speak it even faster. “It’s like he said. I came back to… help. With the house. And, uh…” I look back at him, suddenly a little angry to be in this position because I hate and am terrible with elaborate lies. I’m no natural storyteller. I’ve never gotten used to sharing my stories because there’s hardly ever been anyone in my life around long enough, or interested enough, to tell. “We just—clicked,” I say. “We butted heads at first, but I guess whatever we had when we were younger turned into that plus some and… and I, um—we fell hard. We got married on a whim and it’s my fault he didn’t tell you, Macy, I asked him not to. I haven’t—I haven’t told my parents yet. Things have been strained between us and I don’t think they’d understand, plus I think I should tell them in person. And I at least wanted to see you again before we told you. I also worried you might be upset that we didn’t do a big wedding or something.” Guilt crawls up my already tightened throat, imagining her sadness when Deacon tells her it’s over.

“Oh, I couldn’t care less about the wedding. Those things always become a production for everyone else instead of you, anyway.” She beams at us both, eyes filling again.

“Mom,” Deacon chides when a tear bubbles over, and she shrugs.

“I’m just happy. I can’t help it. Mom always said that house was something magic. How it brought her to Cece and brought them together. I guess she was right.” She sighs mistily. “And don’t worry, I know better than to start asking about grandbabies.” A long pause. Then, “Do you want babies, though? I’m merely curious.” She holds her hands out in surrender. I inhale a corn bread crumb and start to cough.

“Alright, that’s enough . We need to get out there and help now.” He starts shoving himself down the seat, nudging his mom out with him. I follow, recovering myself.

“Fine, fine, fine. I get it. I get it. ” We all make our way to the hall.

A knock comes on the door then, followed by what sounds like Cheryl Gold’s voice. “Macy! I found a little someone over in my site-neighbor’s tent!”

“Why was she in her site-neighbor’s tent?” I whisper.

“Happens more than you’d think,” Deacon whispers back. “She’s in everyone’s business,” he says, a little sullen.

“Even more than you?” I ask, a little delighted.

But something scurries in from the dog door I’ve only just noticed, and he fully hip-checks his mother and me out of the way. “Baby V!” he coos at a pitch I would not have believed him to be capable of, before the tiny creature leaps into his open arms.

“Oh, shoot. In all my excitement I forgot I’d been out there looking for the little shit!” Macy exclaims. “Before we caught you stripping over the fabric softener, that is.”

“Don’t you speak about her that way,” Deacon says, ignoring the last bit. He goes back to letting the dog frantically lick every inch of his face.

“She a wiener dog?” I ask. “She’s cute.”

“She prefers the terms dachshund and beautiful, but yes.” He ruffles her long, dappled hair. “My wittle Vienna sausage.”

O-kay, then. “Should we give you two a moment?” I laugh.

“Probably best,” Macy says. “She’s my dog, but she forgets that fact the moment he comes around. He got her for me three years ago.”

“Nah, let’s go get this place set up for a party!” Deacon cheers, holding Vienna’s paw up in salute. She darts her blue eyes over to me and her little dog lips curl up in a happy, mischievous grin.

Macy ushers me along at her side as we get things set up, asking me questions about the house and how I’m enjoying working at Spill the Beans. She tells me more about Deacon building her entirely new house.

“It started with him building furniture, really,” she tells me. “That bed of his—well, the bed that belongs to you both, now, I suppose…” I work to keep my features in check. “He built that when he was twenty-one or so. Built all the picnic tables here sometime after that. And soon enough he was digging into more mechanical things. Electrocuted himself too many times for comfort until I convinced him to find an apprenticeship and get a damn license.”

I try to volley back questions as much as possible to keep the pressure off me and minimize the risk of me slipping up in our fib, to which she continues to reply warmly, without a hint of suspicion or resentment.

If I told my mom I had eloped it would be a very different response, that’s for sure. But Macy’s just genuinely happy that her son’s found partnership it seems, and that only makes me feel sicker.

“How’s your mom doing, by the way? I know you said you haven’t told her about Deacon yet and that’s fine, I get it. But… I remember Mom saying she remarried?”

I sigh through my nose. “Yeah, she did.” I guess it’d be pointless to tell her that it’s happened twice. “She, uh… lives in New York now.” And now that she’s happy in her life, she wants me in hers. But only on her terms. I’m not sure what else to say because I’m not sure where we stand or where we’ll end up.

“Sweetheart?” Macy’s hand falls to mine, and I pause rolling up the plastic silverware in the patriotic paper napkins. Her expression pinches in concern. “I asked when you last spoke to her?”

“Oh!” I feign a laugh. But then… maybe it’s that I’ve already reached my limit on lies today. I let the smile die, and land on the truth. “It’s been a few days since I last spoke to her. I think we went about four months before that, though. We don’t have the closest relationship.”

She nods with a frown. “If you’ll permit me, I’ll try to tell you something that I’ve occasionally tried to explain to Deacon when it comes to his father, too?” The question is genuine, and I feel like I could quite easily tell her “No thank you” and she would go on without judging me for it. But, maybe I do want the insight.

“Yeah, of course,” I say.

She inhales wearily. “The messes and mistakes we make as parents are more about us than about our children.” She looks at me softly. “I think when you remind yourself that their choices were more about them than you, you can get to a place where you’re open to forgiveness. Or at least, not punishing yourself anymore over it. Because sometimes that’s all that forgiveness accomplishes. Setting yourself free of it.” She sets down the napkins and holds up her hands. “And please don’t misunderstand me here: you don’t owe anyone anything. But if you want her to know how you feel, you have to tell her, honey. And you might have to keep telling her. If Deacon’s father were alive I’d tell him the same thing. I regret not pushing it at the time, but…” She blows out a shaky breath. “But I wanted to only focus on the good bits there at the end, and by doing that, I fear I did my sons a disservice.” She goes back to her task. “Deacon, most of all.”

Maybe my own mom thought that coming back meant we could put enough pretty things on the shelves so we could forget about all the messy corners, the overflowing closets and broken things hidden behind new ones. Maybe she never realized that I was one of the broken things, too. Maybe that’s why it was so liberating to speak up for once.

Because there’s power in that. In saying, look: I was damaged, and you played a role. But I’m repairing myself . Not you, and no one else. If you can accept and love this version of me, chipped bits and all, and acknowledge your part in that, then maybe we can have something real.

I look up across the blacktop dance floor and see Deacon looking this way, his brow creased in concern, Jensen unloading a bale of hay beside him with Vienna panting at his heels. I try to rearrange my face into something reassuring. He smiles a small smile back before he winks—obnoxiously and terribly. Something like static fills my chest, like a limb that went asleep and has to prickle back to life. I shake my head and laugh through my nose.

“Then again, I think he’s doing just fine,” Macy adds, following my line of sight. “Seems to me you both are, even with all the messes left on you.”

I wish she was right. I want her to be right.