Hard 5: Multiple Love

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I say. “It’s hard to see things change, but I can’t live in the past, and I can’t hate them for mistakes my father made.” I say the rational words, but in my heart, there is still a big bubble of hurt and resentment. I just don’t want Jethro Flint to know.

“Your father would have hated them,” he spits. “He’s turning in his grave, watching you wait on them like a slave.”

“I’m no slave,” I say angrily. “And my father would rather see me with a job and roof over my head than sleeping on the streets.”

“You can stay with my brother and me,” Jethro says. “We’ll take care of you.” His black eyes gleam, as the thought of spending time in his personal space makes me shudder.

“I can take care of myself,” I say. “But thank you for your concern.” I begin to push the cart away even though I’m not yet finished. I can come back for the chicken seasoning when there is less raging man obstructing it. “Can I offer some friendly advice?”

He nods, pushing his chin out in defiance.

“There’s no point in feeling angry, especially after all this time. Things change, but we’ve just got to work on making today and tomorrow better. We can’t change what happened. It’ll always be behind us.”

“You think I’ll ever have a place of my own again? My credit is shot. I can’t make enough money working for other people to save a cent.” He makes everything seem hopeless, and even though I’m trying to force myself to believe my own spiel, it’s hard.

“I wish you luck, Jethro.” As I walk away, I hear him laugh softly, but I’m not sure why. Maybe he thinks I’m an idiot for working for the enemy. Maybe he thinks my optimism is childish. He has at least twenty years on me, and eight of them resenting the Bradfords for their role in his bad turn of luck. Maybe I’ll be like him in a decade, trying to incite others to greater resentment or hatred. I don’t want to believe it of myself, but none of us know what we’re capable of until life thrusts challenge our way.

The buoyancy that I was feeling before my run-in with Jethro is shot to hell.

I grab what I need from the shelves, tossing it quickly into the cart, more conscious of everyone around me and what they’re thinking.

The cashier rings me up, her eyes constantly flicking to me as though there is something resting on the tip of her tongue, but she’s not sure if she should say it. I keep my eyes averted as much as possible so as to avoid offering her an opportunity.

I’m loading the bags into the backseat when someone clears their throat behind me. I whirl, half expecting Jethro, but instead, I’m greeted by the sunny radiance that is Amber.

“Hey, Mel,” she says breezily, seemingly forgetting that we haven’t exchanged a word in years.

“Amber.” I nod curtly, taking in her lace-trimmed cut-off shorts and embroidered white blouse. Everything about her is soft and light, and next to her, I feel hard and faded.

“I hear you’re working for the Bradfords.” Even her voice is melodious and lilting.

“News travels fast.”

“How are they?” she asks. One of her fingers twists in her hair as she waits for a response.

“Fine.”

“I mean, are they treating you okay?”

Amber’s sudden concern over my wellbeing has me suspicious. “They’re fine.”

She nods, letting out a small breath of false concern. “That’s good. Are you dating one of them?”

Her blue eyes widen slightly at her own question, and her motives become as transparent as the windows on this truck. “I’m not dating any of them.”

“Really?” She blinks, apparently in relief.

“Really. Why? You have your eyes on one of them?”

“No.” Her denial is too quick and completely unconvincing, and I squint at her, my opinion of this girl that I’ve known my whole life dropping to the floor. “I mean, there’s so many of them, and they all look alike. How could anyone choose?”

I think about their cousins and Connie and how she didn’t need to choose at all. There’s no way I’m telling Amber about that, though. I don’t want her getting any crazy ideas. I might be just about okay working for the Bradfords, but there is no way I could take orders from Amber.

“They live like pigs,” I say. “I’d choose a man with a different last name.” I slam the door shut so hard that Amber flinches.

“My mom says all men need a good woman to keep them in line.”

“All good men can keep themselves in line.” Even as I say it, I think about how tired the Bradfords were when they came home from a whole day of toil. In my heart, I’m more forgiving than I’m letting on to Amber. I’m sure if they had time on their hands, the Bradfords would be more than capable of keeping their home clean and their bellies full.