Fakers (Licking Thicket 1)

“Ava,” I said in my best attempt at a serious commanding voice. Let’s face it, I didn’t have one of those. “I’m seriously not coming. I love you, but I just can’t.”

She looked back at me over her shoulder, glancing between me and the reef sculpture behind me. “Did I forget to mention that I can get you a vendor booth in the art festival for free and the CEO of the tech company that just built its headquarters in the Thicket is both a scuba diver and a classic car enthusiast? And their brand-new building doesn’t have any art in the lobby yet?”

Then she flashed me her widest smile, the one she knew I couldn’t resist. “And he’s gay?”

Fuck me.

“I couldn’t possibly get my stuff shipped out in time.”

“If you think for one minute I’m returning home an unwed mother after leaving the Thicket in utter disgrace because of Brooks Fucking Johnson, and I’m doing it all without the support of the one person who actually gives a shit about me, you’re mistaken.” Her voice was back to shrill. “Malachi Forrester, the flight is at nine tomorrow night. You have twenty-four hours to get your shit together because you are coming with me and you are not leaving my side. And pack a suit. I won’t have my date wearing oily coveralls to the Lickin’ Dinner Dance.” She turned around and walked out into the summer night.

“I don’t own a suit,” I yelled after her. “And I usually wear my birthday suit to any lickings thank you very much!”

I turned back to the almost-finished sculpture, the one I’d spent the better part of the past four months painstakingly perfecting to the detriment of my other work. I couldn’t afford to pass up the chance to find a good home for it. If her connections back home could possibly help me find a place for this installation… it would save me hours and hours of pounding the pavement and trying to sell an already-made giant custom sculpture. I’d sent a few inquiries to local galleries, but since I’d never been selected for a showing, I didn’t hold out much hope.

Sales were the worst part of being an artist. I’d rather stick my finger in an electrical socket than try to convince some corporate automaton the value of a custom piece of art for their office building. Corporate drones and I were like pastel beige and neon pink—we didn’t go together. The last time I’d tried to sell something already commissioned for someone else, it had been a disaster.

And Ava was right. I wasn’t about to let her go home to face her family alone, especially considering her news. She’d been there for me during the disastrous trip to Homer, so I’d be there for her in the Thicket.

Besides, it was just a week, and it wasn’t even my own hometown. How bad could it possibly be?

3

Brooks

It was funny how fast things changed.

Two days ago, I’d been in New York wearing a tailored suit in my air-conditioned office. My assistant had gotten me a sugar-free latte with a half-pump of caramel and gone over my schedule before I’d started my day as the VP of an up-and-coming marketing firm. People had listened to me and respected me because I knew what I was talking about.

Today, I was at the Lickin’ Homecoming Barbecue in my parents’ backyard, sporting a sleeveless brown shirt that read Licking Thicket across the front above a giant Holstein cow head and Head Licker across the back above a picture of a cow’s rump—one of many identical shirts I’d be wearing this week and then burning in a cleansing ritual the minute I got home to New York. I’d started sweating through this shirt the second I’d stepped outside, because Tennessee on an August afternoon had the same climate as hell’s seventh layer. My mother was trotting me around, proudly reintroducing me to the entire town, and having me fetch sweet tea and potato salad while she had the same conversation over and over with nearly every person we encountered.

“Cindy Ann, this brisket is amazing! Better than Susie Dupree’s!” some nice older lady would exclaim, which was about the highest compliment a person could pay my mother. “And this sweet tea! You’ve got to tell me your secret!”

“Now, you know I would, Barb, but I’m afraid you have to marry into the family for that kind of information! Red’s mama passed it down to me the day we got married,” Mama would laugh.

The nice lady would pretend to look me over. “If I were a few years younger, Brooks, I’d give you a run for your money,” she’d joke, wagging a finger at me, and I’d smile politely.

I loved my parents, and I was committed to taking on the Head Licker title so my dad, who looked genuinely exhausted, could recover from his heart procedure stress-free. But by the tenth repetition of this conversation, it became clear that I was severely out of practice at the nodding-and-smiling thing. I was also hungry, hot, stressed about work, and insanely tired.