Love in a Small Town Read Free Page B

to reach out to him, but she just stood there, feeling like her arms had turned to wood, and he stood far away from her. It was as if she were speeding back from him, watching him as she got farther and farther away.
    Half turning, hardly aware of what she was doing, she reached for the blue checked dishtowel. “I don’t, either,” she said, her voice a raspy whisper. She felt like she couldn’t breathe and that loneliness was swallowing her whole.
    “Tommy Lee, I’m not happy with the way things are between us, and I can’t go on pretending everything’s just hunky-dory when it isn’t. Not for me, anyway."
    He just stared at the countertop.
    “Are they for you?” she asked, prodding him, wanting him to say something for her to take hold of. She was willing to settle for him saying just about anything at all.
    He shook his head. “No,” he said tightly, which was a whole lot less than anything at all. Then he rubbed the back of his neck and looked tired of living.
    Molly said, “We just don’t have anything in common anymore, Tommy Lee. We don’t even know each other anymore."
    But Tommy Lee said nothing to that, either, just kept on looking tired.
    So damn tired, as if life with her was just one big trial.
    That’s when she said it, tossing down the blue checked cloth and stating, “I think I’ll go live at Aunt Hestie’s for a while.”
    At that his head swiveled up, and he stared at her, his blue eyes going wide. Her pronouncement had struck him, and she would have had to admit that she was glad to see it.
    Then he said, real tight, “If that’s what you want,” and his blue eyes got small and shot fire.
    What I want? Molly thought, every muscle rigid. He wanted to see it that way, to put it on her like that. Fine! There was just nothing she could say to that. And as if she knew what she was doing, she walked swiftly to the stairway and up the stairs.
    From the big closet, she dragged out the tapestry luggage—the set she had bought for the planned trip to Mexico City last year after they’d gotten Colter, their last, settled in college, a trip that they had never taken because Tommy Lee had bought that ‘65 Corvette instead, for which they’d had to drive to California and spend four days with a car club there. Tommy Lee had always wanted a classic Corvette, and Molly hadn’t wanted to begrudge him his precious dream. But she guessed she still did.
    She jerked clothes from the closet and pulled them from dresser drawers and stuffed the bags. Suddenly she sat down on the bed, her legs gone weak.
    Yanking a tissue from the box, she blew her nose. She tried to pray, asking God to help her get control of her anger. God. . . oh Lord, help me. . . .
    Her attention veered away because she was listening for Tommy Lee’s footsteps. She listened so hard that she heard the trees rustle outside the window and the drip of the toilet.
    Oh, God, what am I doin’? I don’t know, but I do know I just can’t go on livin’ like this anymore. It hurts too bad.
    When she heard the back door slam, she jumped up and ran across to the window. There was Tommy Lee down below, sauntering over to his shop. Sauntering in that way he had of resting down in his lean hips, all those hard muscles moving along in his hell-with-you stride, swinging a can of Coca-Cola in his hand.
    Molly jerked back, dropped the blind and began singing loud and full, “You don’t even know who I am. . . ." Her tears stopped. Like turning off a faucet. By heaven, she didn’t need to stay where she wasn’t wanted.
    Moving coolly, feeling her earrings sway, she pulled off her Keds and tugged on her boots. She gave her hair a few swipes with the brush and let it go, hanging straight back past her collar. In the bathroom, she scooped up her Estée Lauder kit and toiletries and dumped them into the cosmetic case. When it wouldn’t close, she left it halfway unzipped. The entire time she was singing, went from all verses of “You Don’t Even