Against a Wall (Stonecut County, #2)

by Cate C. Wells

I’ve never been able to figure out the phenomenon that is Cash Wall. Is he an insufferable asshole because everyone worships him? Or does everyone worship him because he’s an insufferable asshole?

And then music blares from the top left apartment. I vaguely recognize the song rattling the windows. It’s one of those real “yeehaw” country songs that dudes have been blasting from their trucks with the windows down all summer.

We’re having a roast with mashed potatoes, gravy, sweet corn and creamed corn, drop biscuits, and green beans in deference to Dad’s cholesterol.

“I don’t think we need to bring her up at this table, do you?” Mom dabs the corners of her lips with her napkin—somehow making it bitchy—and then lays it primly on her plate.

I’m not good at losing and letting go. I’m not bouncy. I’m the kind of person who goes splat.

I crack my neck and roll my shoulders. What am I gonna do with this free week? And how bad is Bernard Wilson’s review gonna be? He’s gonna sue me. That’s a given. Dudes like him don’t take responsibility. They pass it right along. I’ve got insurance, but this is going to be a setback. Maybe a big one.

“Bullshit. All of you are circling the wagons now ‘cause you know the jig is

I watch Ken. Glenna must favor her mother. It’s clear father and daughter are related, but it’s not in the color of the eyes—Ken’s are a faded blue—or the hair or the build. Ken’s obviously always been a wiry guy. Except for her perfect little tits, Glenna’s lush. Big hips, fat juicy ass, thighs you wanna dive between. She’s like the tree of life—thick trunk and delicate, willowy top.

Mom didn’t care what anyone thought, but not in a dickish, aggressive way. She had an excuse for everyone. Judgmental people were ashamed of something about themselves. Mean people had hidden pain.

Who cares about a pudding cup eight years later? He winks and tries to look cute. You know who cares? I do. “Apology not accepted.” His face falls. “Who stole your dessert, Cash?” He doesn’t rush to answer. “No one, right? ‘Cause no one would dare mess with a Wall.” “You want me to buy you an ice cream sandwich?” He’s aiming for playful, but he knows he’s poked the bear. “I didn’t buy the ice cream sandwich. I got what came with the lunch.” “You want me to buy you a cookie then?” He’s keeping the tone light, and he’s not losing his patience, but he’s utterly oblivious, and it’s throwing him. He doesn’t understand what this is about.

And it makes me furious. “No, Cash. I want you to go back in time, and I want you to make it so the girl whose mom just keeled over in the cereal aisle at the grocery store with a heart attack at forty-one, and whose father is so torn up about it that he avoids buying food, gets to eat the only sweet thing she’s gonna get in her whole damn day.” Now I’m crying. I don’t know where it came from. It ambushed me out of nowhere. How do I stuff it back? Fuck grief. Fuck it so hard. I expect him to back off. Mumble an apology. Find an excuse to bail. No one has the patience for old grief. After a while, you’re supposed to keep it to yourself. Shove it under the bed or the back of

the closet. Holding on to it is unhealthy, right? But grief’s not an animal on a leash. It stays, regardless of how tight or loose you hold on. It settles in. It walks alongside you. I wish I had two good arms so I could cross them, put something between my heart and this moment, but I can’t, so I hold the wooden banister tight with one hand while hot tears dribble down my cheeks. Cash digs his hand in his back pocket and comes out with a navy-blue handkerchief. He holds it up. “It’s a little damp. I was sweating on my way up to your place.” He ...

“He hates girls who dye their hair and pierce their noses.” “He bought me a beer so that’s a bold-faced lie.” Does Cash like dyed hair and pierced noses? Nope. Nope. Do not care. “He’s unemployed,” Cash says. “You’re talking about yourself.” “I’m self-employed,” he protests. “No, you’re not. Your clients bailed. You’ve been hanging out at my job all week.” He laughs. He has a nice laugh. It’s not thin, not mocking or biting or wry. It’s a full laugh. A free laugh. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll be able to pay our bills just fine.” My stomach does a weird loop de loop. “I’m high maintenance. You can’t afford me.” “You’ve had the same pair of boots since eleventh grade.” How does he know that? “They are very durable boots.” I wish I was wearing them now. Despite feeling no pain, these high heels still pinch like hell. We’re rocking side-to-side, not moving our feet, both staring in the direction of the table with my purse. He’s holding me, whispering in my ear, but projecting his voice ‘cause of the music. It doesn’t seem like he has anywhere he needs to go. Or anywhere else he wants to be.

Her makeup’s all smudged around her eyes like a raccoon. Guess she didn’t “take her face off” like my mom does. When I was little, I was low-key terrified that Mom really did peel it off at night and hang it from a hook or something. I knew she didn’t, but—I had a kid’s imagination.

The thing about the Tobies of this world is that they talk a lot, so much that they convince themselves of their own bullshit. But a man who’s never taken a hit is still a man who’s never taken a hit. And until you get knocked down and get back up, you don’t know whether you can. Makes you scared. Makes you all talk. I step toward him, puff my chest. He holds his own, staring off after Glenna. I whistle. “Eyes over here, buddy.” He opens his mouth to spew some kind of nonsense. I take another step. Now he can smell my breath. I hope he can smell Glenna on my jeans. He has a choice. Stay in kissing distance of a man who outweighs him by fifty pounds—who he knows will throw a punch—or back the fuck up. I hope he’s feeling froggy. I crack my neck and grin. He steps back. I sigh. I guess today’s not the day. I force him back a few more steps until we’re both in the hall, and then I shut the door behind me. I recognize that Glenna was with this douchebag for a long time, and her feelings are probably a touch confused. Mine are clear as day, though. Glenna Dobbs is mine now. All mine. And she can have all the guy friends she wants, as long as they’re actually friendly.

Toby’s a manipulative douche. Toby doesn’t get to be her friend. I smile at Toby. His gaze flickers from my face to my fists. He’s worried. He’s seen me fight. He knows I’m not all talk, even though I am gonna be in this particular moment. Glenna wouldn’t like it if I beat up some dude in front of her apartment. “Let’s talk, my friend.” I clap a hand on his shoulder. “You seem mistaken. I thought Glenna made it pretty damn clear when she said she’s not your business, but I understand how not paying attention to her might have become a habit for you.” His plucked eyebrows spear together. He doesn’t agree with that characterization. “Now, Toby, I’m not a smart man, but I have eyes in my head, and you have been particularly careless with your shit. Lucky for you, Glenna ain’t your business anymore. She’s mine. And if you upset her again—I don’t give a shit why, disturb her morning off ‘cause you forgot your keys again, whatever—you’re gonna deal with me.” He draws himself up until he’s almost my height. “Are you threatening me?” “Yeah. I didn’t think I was bein’ subtle.” I flick an invisible piece of lint off his striped T-shirt. I think it’s supposed to be ironic or vintage or something, but he looks like a Peanuts cartoon. Toby holds himself very still. His skin blanches under the ‘stache and soul patch. It ain’t sporting, threatening a guy like him. Makes me feel like a bully. He’s not making Glenna feel

bad anymore, though. Those days are over. “Glenna’s a big girl. She can make her own mistakes. And you aren’t her friend.” I give him my best dickish smile. “A friend would’ve dumped her before he hooked up with his ex, right?” His eyes bulge. He really thought I didn’t know? Like, fifty people told me as soon as they heard Glenna and I were together. This is Stonecut County. The only reason they don’t publish that kind of gossip in the paper is that everyone’s already heard it. I’m genuinely surprised Glenna doesn’t know. Her face is an open book, though. If she knew, she’d look at Toby with the same disdain she reserves for me. Toby’s gaze darts to the closed door behind me. “It would upset her,” he says, cagey. He’s trying to be slick. I shrug. “That is what I tend to do.” “You know she’s only with you to make me jealous. She hates you.” Toby’s lip curls. This guy. How much trouble would I have saved myself if I’d beaten the shit out of him the first time I had the inclination? Seventh grade. It could’ve all been over. Glenna would...

Sometimes, when we were kids, Cash would bring Dina and I squeezie pops when we were hanging out in her treehouse. He’d holler, and we’d come out and sit on the balcony, dangling our legs through the slats. He’d offer the pops fanned out like a deck of cards. I always picked grape, and Dina always picked lime. Then Cash would launch into some long-winded story about a video game or a fish or something equally boring to pre-teen girls. Dina and I would pretend to listen patiently, swinging our legs and eating our ice pops since he did bring them all the way out to us. Sometimes he’d mess with me by trying to knock my shoes off. I’d tuck my knees to my chin, and he’d laugh.

I open the door with no ado. Immediately, Cash thrusts a bouquet of wildflowers at me. Orange roses, sunflowers, daisies, green trick, and baby’s breath. It’s wrapped in burlap and tied with raffia. “Oh.” I take them. He smiles, proud as a peacock. “You’re supposed to smell them.” I do ‘cause I’m at a loss. No guy’s ever gotten me flowers before. My mom got me carnations whenever I displayed a photo in an art show or at the county fair, but flowers from a man—nope. Only seen that on TV. Cash is waiting for me to say something. “Nice.” “Put ‘em in water.” He seems familiar with this whole thing. Jealousy prickles inside me, which is stupid. Jealousy is petty. “Did you get them at Tansy’s?” I ask while I head for the kitchen and try to shove down the grouchy, icky feeling. Tansy’s is the only florist in town, and this is too nice for a grocery store bouquet. “Yup.” I open a cabinet. Do I even have a vase? I have a glass lemonade pitcher. It’s on the top shelf ‘cause I never use it. I set down the bouquet and vault up onto the counter with my good arm. “Whoa.” Cash is suddenly right there, hands skimming my sides, like he’s spotting me. I rise on my knees and reach for the pitcher. “I could’ve gotten that for you.” I grab the pitcher and turn, lowering myself back to sitting. “So could I.” He’s still smiling. I don’t think he’s stopped since I opened the door. “Are you gonna back up so I can get down?” I ask. “Nah.” He takes the pitcher from my hand and reaches over to fill i...

“What’s that?” Cash asks as he bumps down from the sidewalk and accelerates as he turns onto Main. “What’s what?” “That smile. You smiled.” Yeah, I guess I did. “Granger,” I say as an explanation. Cash chuckles. “Flowers make you frown, but my slobbery mutt makes you smile?” “I guess so.” Cash grins. “If you roll down the window, he’ll stick his head out, and his ears’ll blow in the wind. He loves it.” I push the button. Granger rises, pokes his long snout out of the cab, and howls for joy as his ears take flight. It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I stroke his back, and his tail thwaps the armrest, and all the messy, bad feelings from the past little bit go flying out the window, too.

“What?” he asks. “It’s just—you’re really into people.” He smiles, but it’s restrained. Almost tired. “I don’t actually like people all that much, Glenna. People like me. Except you.” His lips curve higher, dimpling at the corners, and there’s a warmth to it now. “You don’t like me.” I roll my eyes. “For obvious reasons.” “For obvious reasons,” he repeats, and then he sighs. “I’m a Wall, right? I got a responsibility to the town.” “To party and bro it up?” “To be what people want me to be. What makes ‘em happy. We all have our role to play, right?”

Since no one’s here, we can talk.” Toby ducks under the counter and pours himself a coffee. I instantly feel like a kid called to the principal’s office. Toby’s “we need to talks” were my least favorite thing about our relationship. He’d invite me to sit at the kitchen table, and then he’d let me know what he needed from me that he wasn’t getting and how I needed to improve. I’d cry. He’d say I was making myself into the victim. I’d try to stop crying. And it was always shit I could never possibly change. Like one time, he had an issue with the fact that I wasn’t open enough to the possibility of change. Or another time, I cared too much what other people thought, and how did I think that made him feel? It was always a mindfuck. I grab a dish rag and duck into the dining area. “Can’t. I’m busy.” Toby lets out his long-suffering sigh and leans on the counter. I start wiping down clean tables. “Glen—” “Pass.” “Glen—” He ups the note of disapproval. That used to stop me in my tracks. “Not interested.” He sighs again. “Fine. I’ll talk, and you can listen.” That is literally always how this crap went. “I know you’re angry with me now, and you think I’m not your friend, but I am. And I don’t want you getting yourself hurt to spite me. It hurts me to see it, Glen.”

“My choices have nothing to do with you.” I scrub at a stubborn creamer stain. “Glen, you don’t have to be with someone to be happy. I mean, I feel partially responsible here. You clung to me like a life raft, and I did honestly love you, so I let you. But maybe I was doing you a disservice. You gotta learn to be happy with yourself before you can be happy with someone else.” He stares at me soulfully, and I know he one hundred percent means what he says. I want to hurl. Or hurl something at him. “Is that what you’re doing with Samantha? Learning to be happy with yourself?” Before it’s all the way out of my mouth, I know I stepped in it. That’s not what I wanted to say, anyway. He exhales, oozing smug sympathy. “I knew this was about Samantha. Listen, Glen—what Samantha and I have doesn’t take away from what we had. You don’t need to prove anything by messing around with Cash Wall. You gotta find your worth inside yourself, you know?” He sounds so goddamn condescending. And what a shitty mirror to hold up to someone. Look at yourself, you stage-five clinger. No one could possibly love you or want you, so my best advice to you is fix yourself. And also, I would like credit for loving you when you so clearly suck as evidenced by your low-ass self-esteem—which is really an accurate assessment of your sad, clingy, unactualized self. I’m the good guy. You’re the mess. And I’m only trying to help. I want to say all that, but I’d never get the words in the right order, and I also...

He smiles, and it’s gentle and dopey and shameless.

Then, as soon as he sees Toby on his phone at a table in the empty dining room, he clears his throat, smirks as smarmy as I’ve ever seen, and announces, “Sorry for the inconvenience, man. Just ate Glenna’s sweet pussy until she called my name instead of God’s. Apparently, she’s never had it so good, but don’t be too hard on yourself, my dude.” Cash has been walking and talking, and when he passes Toby, he claps him hard on the shoulder. “You like to run your mouth to tear a woman down. I got other skills.”

I can’t stop touching her. I mess with the tendrils falling loose from her scrunchie, smooth her shoulders, squeeze her ass. She squeaks and slaps me. I grin. She’s not slipping free. She’s staying right where I put her, against the wall.

Glenna curls herself into the corner of a worn couch, so I sit in the middle and squish her. She tucks her toes under my thigh, and I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy. My girl. Mine. I sigh, rest an arm on the back cushion, and stretch my legs. This is a good place. A home.

“And?” “Maybe—” Her eyes go shiny. “Maybe I’m a little less stuck here. A little less stuck, period. I can decide what I want to do next.” She tosses a shoulder. “It could be anything.” And that scares me shitless, but also, I want that for her. I want her to have the whole world, not whatever slice that got doled out to her. I want her to choose me when she could choose anything.

There is soft homemade butter for the cornbread and the catfish coating has Old Bay just like my grandma’s. There are chunks of ham in the green beans, and the creamed corn is the perfect amount of runny.

“I have the metabolism of a hummingbird,” Cash declares. “A what?” Brice says. He looks at his sister. They both crack up. “What?” Cash says between bites. “Hummingbirds are known for their metabolism. Right, Glenna?” Why’s he bringing me into it? I do actually know about hummingbird metabolisms. I have a series of prints with a Calliope hovering in mid-flight. “They do have the fastest metabolism of any animal.” Cash flashes me an unduly pleased grin, and he says, “See? My girl’s got my back.” My cheeks heat. Everyone’s looking at me. That’s not why I’m blushing though. I can’t lie to myself. Cash smiles at me, pleased, and I feel it down to my toes. It’s embarrassing. Disorienting. And it makes everything livelier. Brighter. Exciting. I’m in so much trouble. “I’ll admit. I couldn’t see it before,” Deja says after she stops laughing. “But maybe I’m starting to see it.” “What do you mean, you couldn’t see it?” Cash scowls, but he’s not serious. “I mean Glenna’s obviously too smart for you.” Deja starts ticking off on her fingers. “Too classy. Too down to earth.” “You can’t be classy and down to earth,” Cash objects. “Well, you can’t.” Deja turns and says to me conspiratorially, “Cash is very one-dimensional. Like those standing cutouts of racecar drivers at the Sandwich Shack.” “You’re hurting my feelings, Deja. I’m a deep guy.” “You’re a derp guy.” Deja snorts. Brice sips his tea, enjoying himself.

There’s a moment when no one’s talking, but everyone’s smiling, and it’s like a whole other world. Not lonely like my dad and I with our TV dinners. Not strained like at Toby’s parents’—he and his father argued like it was a sport. And not fraught and awkward like the Walls’. It’s nice. I’m full. I scoop the rest of my last piece of fish up with my fork and slide it onto Cash’s plate. His eyes widen in surprise, and a huge smile breaks across his face. I resist the compulsion to shrug like it’s nothing. Instead, I smile back. “Thank you,” he says low, for my ears only. “You’re welcome,” I say back.

I guess I’m supposed to want a nice guy who treats me well. A man who knows how to communicate. Someone with a good sense of humor. A partner who makes me a better person. That’s the kind of thing the magazines at my hair stylist say.

And just because you regret the way you made it through something doesn’t mean you can’t also be proud as hell that you did get through.

Lil Willis is like a kindly nursery school teacher. She’s a listener by nature. An approver. The kind of person who is delighted to see you, who remembers your name and your last conversation, who notices your new shoes. I like her. The whole town does.

Since I’m distracted, I almost step around the man blocking my path, but then my mind catches the fishhook on the cap and the camo pants. Cash. He has a brown bag with a grease-stained bottom in one hand and an apple cider donut in the other. He’s wearing a forest green ribbed sweater that molds his arms and pecs. My mouth waters. “Hi,” he says. I don’t know what to say. He smiles, and it’s not tentative, not bashful or guarded in the least. It goes ear-to-ear. He’s so happy to see me. He holds out the doughnut. It’s a moment of decision. I suck at decisions. But I fucking love warm apple cider doughnuts. Maybe this all isn’t as hard as I think. I bend and take a big bite. Oh, yeah. It’s still warm. Cash’s smile grows impossibly wider. He takes a bite, too. “Hi,” he says again. I can’t say anything ’cause my mouth is full.

“I think he likes you a lot,” she says. “Yeah.” I think he does, too. “He’s a dumbass. If you don’t want him, you gotta be straightforward with him. He’s got a thick head.” There’s a blown-open feeling in my chest. In essence, Cash Wall just fought the whole town for me. Or all takers, at least. And if I’m honest with myself—really, really honest—I didn’t smash Toby in the face because he insulted me. I was mad because he called Cash Wall a pig. He might be, but he’s my pig, dammit.

“I want him,” I say, my lips curving. Cash notices, and he smiles back. He’s missing a tooth. This idiot lost a tooth for me. Dina grunts acknowledgement and chomps her apple.