“Am I right? Are you making potpourri?”
He was so close, I could have counted his freckles. Was he flirting with me? I’d never seen him without his shirt on, but I imagined the freckles extended down over his broad shoulders.
Carter moved to Beaverdale about a year ago, to complete his recovery from a bad car accident. He’d been unconscious for three days, broken bones all over, and when he finally woke up, he asked the nurse for a cigarette.
His family knew something wasn’t right, as he’d never smoked a day in his life—that they knew of. The truth was, he’d smoked for a few months when he was fourteen, and something about the brain injury had set him right back one entire decade, possibly to the day. There were some physical problems as well, like needing to learn how to walk without falling over once his leg was healed, but the most curious aspect was his lost memory.
He’d been a super-smart student, getting top grades in law school and being courted by top law firms in Los Angeles. But all that knowledge was gone after the coma. He couldn’t take the bar, because he was fourteen inside, with a fourteen-year-old’s knowledge.
Carter recovered physically, and by the time he turned sixteen for the second time, he had the mental faculties of a keenly intelligent twenty-year-old, getting smarter every day.
But this person, this new Carter, had no interest in law school. He wanted to play guitar and write music. Did the world need another lawyer, or did it need a poet? That was what he asked his parents when they delivered their ultimatum.
They felt the world needed another lawyer far more than another poet, hence the differential in potential earnings. When he wouldn’t agree, they changed the locks on the guest cottage across the pool from their mansion, and he found himself homeless.
Carter packed up his car, leaving behind most of his worldly possessions, but not his his three favorite guitars. He drove out of LA not sure where he was going. He stopped for gas and picked up a copy of Small Town Life in America. He opened the magazine to a story titled Passports & Beavers.
By the time he got back into the driver’s seat, his mind was made up, and he programmed Beaverdale’s coordinates into his car’s navigation system.
“I know all about potpourri,” he said, grinning and still eye-level with me. “It’s petals and bark, and you girls like it. Are these flowers from some dude?”
“Yes. Some dude.” I could feel my cheeks reddening, because now I was thinking about some dude. He was quite the dude, all right. My brain was traipsing around the filing cabinets full of images of Dalton with his clothes off, recalling the sensations of his soapy hands all over my body in the shower.
I continued, “Just a dude I know. We’re sorta seeing each other, but he’s not my boyfriend.”
“I should’ve asked you out when I had the chance,” he said.
I narrowed my eyes at Carter. Red-haired boys are always the biggest pranksters—what’s that all about?
“Don’t make fun,” I said.
He backed away, holding his hands up. There was new ink swirling up his arm—those fancy fish people put in their ponds. Coi. Or as the local raccoons thought of them, supper.
The coi fish on Carter’s arm were spotted with his freckles.
“I'm not teasing,” he said. “Let me know when you get tired of this douche and I’ll take you out for one of those fancy lemonades girls like.”
“How do you know he’s a douche?”
“I took one look at you when I came in, and you looked like you were going to cry. Usually you get real excited to see me. I like to pretend it’s my good looks and tight ass, but we both know it’s the new books I deliver. Today, though, your face is all droopy. So, what’s the matter? What’s the story, morning glory?”
I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to tell him specifics, so I said, “Do you ever think other people will never understand what it feels like to be you?”
“People don’t know what it feels like to truly be themselves, let alone other people.”
I swept up the petals and crushed them into a ball in the palm of my hand.
“Why are you so wise?” I asked.
“Because I took a workshop from Dottie Simpkins.”
“What?”
He started laughing, bending over and slapping his knee. “Just kidding. Shayla tried to get me to go for one that’s just for men, but I have band practice scheduled for all the same times as the workshops.” He grabbed the hand truck he’d brought some boxes in on and wheeled it to the back table where I liked to receive the stock. “Would you like your delivery here, ma’am?”
“Yes, sir.”
He bent over, giving me a good view of his cute buns and muscular calves. Carter always wore shorts, even on the coldest days of winter. He claimed he “ran hot.” Mm-hmm.
Carter moved quickly, tossing the boxes onto the old wood table as easy as if they were empty and not full of heavy books. He raced back out the door and returned with the other five boxes.
I grabbed my clip board with the invoice attached, plus the box cutter. Naturally, this was the cue for a rush of customers to come in the door, all needing to get recommendations. I knew that helping customers was my real job, but when you’re trying to receive an order, they do feel like interruptions.
“Have fun,” Carter said with a knowing look as he rolled his handcart out the door.
I got busy, unpacking boxes and helping customers until it was past lunch break. I put the “Back in Five Minutes” sign up, locked the door, and ran over to get my lunchtime mocha and my tuna sandwich from Java Jones.
Kirsten, the girl who managed the place, looked more wan and limp than usual. She was probably on another juice cleanse or three-day fast. Either way, I didn’t want to know, so I didn’t ask.
“What are you up to with that actor guy?” she asked as she steamed the milk for my mocha.
“Nothing. What did you hear? Who told you? Was it Chantalle Hart?”
She snorted as she finished making my drink. “Saw you with my own two eyes. In here the other day. He even asked if I knew you.”
“Ah. Yes. He wanted to ask me some questions about life in a small town, as research for the movie they’re shooting.”
“Is he staying up at the No-Tell Motel?”
Yikes. What did Kirsten know?
I shrugged, a pitiful attempt to hide my shock. “Beats me.”
Kirsten shook her brown ponytail and gave me a Like Hell look. She’d been a few years ahead of me in school, but I was well aware of her reputation. Whenever an attractive couple broke up, Kirsten would appear on the doorstep of the young man, ostensibly to cheer him up, and wearing nothing but a bit of lace under her overcoat. I heard through Shayla that she’d gone to the city for Sex Addict Rehab, but first of all, I don’t think that’s a real thing, and secondly, I don’t think it worked.