Things We Never Got Over (Knockemout Book 1)

A t this minute, I was supposed to be jet-lagged and wandering the streets of Paris on my honeymoon. Instead I was clinging to the handlebars of an ancient ten-speed bike, trying not to tip over.

It had been years since my ass had met a bike seat. Every bump and rut on the gravel road jarred both my teeth and my lady parts. The one and only time I’d talked Warner into trying one of those tandem bikes at the beach, we’d ended up head first in a shrub outside the kite store.

Warner had not been pleased.

There were a lot of things that hadn’t pleased Warner Dennison III.

Things I should have paid more attention to.

The thicket of woods passed in a buzzing blur as we rode through swirls of gnats and the thick southern humidity. Beads of sweat trickled down my spine.

“Are you comin’ or what?” Waylay called from what seemed like a mile ahead. She was riding a rusty boy’s bike with her arms dangling at her sides.

“What’s your middle name?” I yelled back.

“Regina.”

“Waylay Regina Witt, you put both hands on your handlebars this instant!”

“Oh, come on. You’re not one of those fun hatin’ aunts, are you?”

I pedaled harder until I caught up. “I am lots of fun,” I huffed, partially because I was offended but mostly because I was out of breath.

Sure, maybe I wasn’t a ride-with-no-hands or a sneak-out-of-a-sleepover- to-go-kiss-boys fun, or a call-in-sick-to-go-to-a-concert fun kind of gal, but I didn’t hate fun. There was usually just too much that needed doing before I could get to the fun.

“Town’s this way,” Waylay said, gesturing to the left with a flick of her chin. It was such a Tina gesture that it took away what remaining breath I had.

We abandoned gravel for smooth asphalt, and within minutes, I spotted the outskirts of Knockemout up ahead.

For a second, I lost myself in the historic familiarity of a bike ride. The sun on my face and arms, the warm air as it brushed over my skin, the call and response of a billion insects in the throes of summer. I’d been an eleven-year-old on a bike once. Heading out for adventure into the morning swelter and not returning home until I got hungry or the fireflies came out.

There were sprawling horse farms on the outskirts of town with slick fences and emerald green pastures. I could almost smell the wealth and privilege. It reminded me of Warner’s parents’ country club.

Four bikers in worn denim and leather roared past us on motorcycles, the engine rumble a vibration in my bones, as they escaped the confines of town.

Horse people and bikers. It was a unique combination.

The farms disappeared and were replaced by tidy homes on tidy lots that got closer and closer together until we were on the main street. Traffic was light. So I was able to pay more attention to the downtown area than I had this morning. There was a farm supply store and a gift shop next to the mechanic. Opposite was a hardware store and the pet store where my Volvo had been stolen.

“Grocery store’s this way,” Waylay called from ahead of me as she took another left turn much faster than I felt prudent.

“Slow down!” Great. Half a day in my care and my niece was going to end up knocking out her front teeth by riding face first into a stop sign.

Waylay ignored me. She zipped down the block and into the parking lot.

I added bike helmets to my mental shopping list and followed her .

After parking our bikes on the rack by the front door, I pulled out the envelope I’d —thankfully—hidden in a box of tampons. Minutes before I was supposed to walk down the aisle, my mother had handed me a card full of cash.

It was supposed to be our wedding present. Spending money for the honeymoon. Now it was the only money I had access to until I could replace my stolen credit and debit cards.

I shuddered to think how much money I’d stupidly shelled out of my own savings for the wedding that never happened.

“Guess you can’t buy too many brussels sprouts since we’re on bikes,”

Waylay observed smugly.

“Guess again, smarty-pants,” I said, pointing at the sign in the window.

Home Delivery Available.

“Aww, man,” she groaned.

“Now we can get a truckload of vegetables,” I said cheerily.

“NO.”

“What do you mean, no?” I demanded, waggling stalks of asparagus at Waylay.

“No to asparagus,” Waylay said. “It’s green.”

“You don’t eat green foods?”

“Not unless it comes in candy form.”

I wrinkled my nose. “You have to eat some vegetables. What about fruits?”

“I like pie,” she said, poking suspiciously at a bin of mangos as if she’d never seen them before.

“What do you usually eat for dinner with…with your mom?” I had no idea whether Tina was a touchy subject or if she routinely left Waylay to fend for herself. I felt like I was blindfolded and being forced to shuffle out onto a frozen lake. The ice would break under my feet sooner or later, I just didn’t know where or when.

Her shoulders hiked up toward her ears. “Dunno. Whatever was in the fridge.”

“Leftovers?” I asked hopefully.

“I make Easy Mac and frozen pizzas. Sometimes nuggets,” Waylay said, growing bored with the mangos and moving on to frown at a display of green leaf lettuces. “Can we get Pop-Tarts?”

I was getting a headache. I needed more sleep and coffee. Not necessarily in that order. “Maybe. But first we have to agree on a few healthy foods.”

A man in a Grover’s Groceries apron turned the corner into produce. His

polite smile vanished when he caught sight of us. Eyes narrowed, lip curled, he looked as if he’d just spotted us drop-kicking a plastic, light-up Baby Jesus in an outdoor nativity scene.

“Hello,” I said, adding an extra punch of warmth to my smile.

He gave a harrumph in our direction and stalked off.

I glanced at Waylay, but either she hadn’t noticed the eye daggers or she was immune.

So much for southern hospitality. Though we were in Northern Virginia.

Maybe they didn’t do the Southern hospitality thing here. Or maybe the man had just found out that his cat had a month to live. You never knew what people were going through behind the scenes.

Waylay and I worked our way around the store, and I noticed a similar reaction from a few other employees and patrons. When the woman behind the deli counter threw the pound of sliced turkey breast at me, I’d had enough.

I made sure Waylay was busy leaning over an open freezer of chicken nuggets. “Excuse me, I’m new here. Am I breaking some kind of store etiquette that results in hurled deli meats?”

“Ha. You ain’t fooling me, Tina Witt. Now, you gonna pay for that turkey or try to stuff it in your bra like last time?”

And there was my answer.

“I’m Naomi Witt. Tina’s sister and Waylay’s aunt. I can assure you I’ve never stuffed deli meat in my bra.”

“Bullshit.” She said it cupping a hand to her mouth like she was using a bullhorn. “You and that kid of yours are no good, shoplifting pains in the ass.”

My conflict resolution skills were limited to people-pleasing. Usually I would squeak out a terrified apology and then feel compelled to buy the offended party some kind of small, thoughtful gift. But today I was tired.

“Okay. You know what? I don’t think you’re supposed to talk to patrons like that,” I said.

I was going for firm and confident, but it came out tinged with hysteria.

“And you know what else? Today I’ve been yelled at, robbed—twice—and turned into an inexperienced instaparent, and that was before lunch. I’ve slept about an hour in the last two days. And you don’t see me hurling deli meat around. All I ask from you is that you treat me and my niece with a modicum of respect as a paying customer. I don’t know you. I’ve never been here before. I’m sorry for whatever my sister did with her breasts and your meat.

But I’d really like this turkey sliced thinner!”

I pushed the package back over the top of the cooler at her.

Her eyes were wide in that “not sure how to handle this unhinged customer” way.

“You’re not shittin’ me? You’re not Tina?”

“I am not shitting you.” Damn it. I should have gone for the coffee first.

“Aunt Naomi, I found the Pop-Tarts,” Waylay said, appearing with an armload of sugary breakfast treats.

“Great,” I said.

“SO,” I said, sliding a strawberry kiwi smoothie in front of Waylay and taking the seat across from her. Justice, the man of my dreams, had made my afternoon latte in a mug the size of a soup bowl.

“So what?” Waylay asked sullenly. Her sneakered foot was kicking the pedestal leg of the table.

I wished I hadn’t run over my phone at the rest stop so I could search for

“ways to break the ice with kids.”

“Uh, what have you been doing this summer?”

She looked me in the eyes for a long beat, then said, “What’s it to you?”

People with kids made it look easy to talk to them. I stuck my face in my bowl o’ latte and slurped, praying for inspiration.

“Thought you two ladies could use a little snack,” Justice said, sliding a plate of cookies onto the table. “Fresh out of the oven.”

Waylay’s blue eyes went wide as she took in the plate and then looked up into Justice’s face with suspicion.

“Thank you, Justice. That’s so sweet of you,” I said. I gave my niece a nudge.

“Yeah. Thanks,” Waylay said. She didn’t reach for a cookie but sat there staring at the plate.

This was an example I felt confident setting. I snatched up a peanut butter cookie and, between guzzles of my coffee, took a bite. “Ohmygod,” I managed. “Justice, I know we just met. But I’d be honored if you marry me.”

“She’s already got the wedding dress,” Waylay said.

He laughed and flashed the gold band on his left hand. “It devastates me to say I’m already spoken for.”

“The good ones always are.” I sighed.

Waylay’s fingers furtively moved closer to the plate.

“My favorite is the chocolate chocolate chip,” Justice said, pointing at the biggest cookie on the plate. With a wink, he was gone.

She waited until he was behind the counter before snatching the cookie off the plate.

“Mmmm. So good,” I mumbled, my mouth full of cookie goodness.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re so weird.”

“Shut up and eat your cookie.” Her eyes narrowed, and I grinned.

“Kidding. So, what’s your favorite color?”

We were on question ten of my half-assed getting to know you ice breaker when the door to the cafe flew open, and a woman strolled inside in ripped tights, a short denim skirt, and a Lenny Kravitz t-shirt. She had wild dark hair worn in a high ponytail, several earrings, and a lotus flower tattooed on her forearm. I couldn’t tell if she was in her thirties or her forties.

“There you are,” she said, grinning around a lollipop in her mouth when she spotted us.

The friendly greeting made me immediately suspicious. Everyone thought I was Tina, which meant if someone was happy to see me they were probably a terrible person.

The woman grabbed a chair, spun it around backwards, and flopped down at our table. “Ooooh! Those look good.” She helped herself to a cookie with red frosting, trading lollipop for baked good. “So, Naomi,” she began.

“Uh, do we know you?”

Our uninvited guest slapped herself in the forehead. “Whoops. Manners!

I’m already several steps ahead in our relationship. You’ll just have to catch up. I’m Sherry Fiasco.”

“Sherry Fiasco?”

She shrugged. “I know. Sounds made up. But it’s not. Justice, I’ll take a double espresso to go,” she called.

My future husband raised a hand without turning around from the order he was working on. “You got it, Fi.”

“So, as I was saying. In my head, we’re already friends. Which is why I have a job for you,” she said, biting the cookie in half. “Hey, Way.”

Waylay studied Sherry over her smoothie. “Hey.”

“So what do you say?” Sherry asked, shimmying her shoulders.

“Huh?”

“Aunt Naomi’s kind of a planner,” Waylay explained. “She wrote three lists so far today.”

“Ahh. A look before you leap type,” Sherry said, nodding sagely. “Okay.

I’m a business manager, which puts me in charge of several small businesses in the area. One of them is down a server and desperately needs someone who can deliver beer and be generally charming.”

“A waitress?” I’d spent the last five years of my life cooped up in an office answering emails, pushing papers, and settling human resource issues via carefully worded emails.

Being on my feet and around people all day sounded like it might be fun.

“It’s honest work. The tips are great. The uniforms are cute. And the rest of the staff is a hoot. Mostly,” Sherry said.

“I’d need to arrange childcare,” I hedged.

“For who?” Waylay demanded, her forehead scrunched up.

“For you,” I said, ruffling her hair.

She looked appalled and dodged my hand. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Just because you’re used to doing something one way doesn’t mean it’s the right way,” I told her. “You’ve spent a lot of time looking out for yourself, but that’s my job now. I’m not about to leave you alone while I go to work.”

“That’s stupid. I’m not a baby.”

“No, you’re not,” I agreed. “But adult supervision is a necessity.”

Waylay muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “bullshit.” I decided to pick my battles and pretend I hadn’t heard.

“If that’s your only reservation, I can easily find someone to hang out with Way here while you rake in the tip money.”

I chewed on my lower lip. I wasn’t a fan of having to decide things on the spot. There were pros and cons to weigh. Research to do. Routes to calculate.

Schedules to firm up.

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving Waylay with a stranger,” I explained.

“Of course not,” Sherry chirped. “I’ll arrange a meeting, and you can decide then.”

“Uh…”

Justice whistled from the counter. “Order’s up, Fi.”

“Thanks, big guy,” she said, jumping up from her chair. “Well, I’ll see you two ladies later. First shift’s tomorrow night. Be there at five.”

“Wait!”

She cocked her head.

“Where is this job?”

“Honky Tonk,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Bye!”

I watched Sherry Fiasco strut out of the cafe with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly where she was going and what she was doing.

Even when my five-year plan was intact, I hadn’t had that kind of confidence.

“What just happened?” I whispered.

“You got a job and then turned me into a dumb baby.” Waylay’s face was stony.

“I didn’t call you a dumb baby and I didn’t officially accept,” I pointed out.

But I needed income, and the sooner the better. My checking account balance wasn’t exactly going to support us indefinitely. Especially not with rent and security deposits and utilities to worry about. Not to mention the fact that I had no vehicle, no phone, and no computer.

I picked up another cookie and took a bite. “It won’t be so bad,” I promised Waylay.

“Yeah, right,” she scoffed and went back to kicking the table.