Pierce My Heart (Women of Willowbrook Book 1) (2 page)

“Love you too, my girl. I’ll tell the boys. See you soon,” she says.

“Bye, Mom.”

“Bye, Anna.”

I hit the end button on my phone, set it on the counter, and finish my soda before tossing it into the bin by the fridge. Snagging my phone again, I head for the bathroom to shower and get ready for the day.

Seems I have ingredients to buy.

Thinking of that, I open up a new message on my phone and shoot Nate a quick text.

A: White chocolate peanut butter cup cupcakes, your wish is my command brother.

Walking into the bathroom, I grab a towel from the small cupboard and fling it over the door before reaching in and starting the shower.

When I hear Beavis say, ‘Hey Baby’, I turn and grab my phone, seeing a new text from Nate.

N: Fuck yeah. You rock, Anna!

I laugh.

A: Nathan Scott Pierce, you kiss your mother with that mouth? I’m telling!

Dropping the phone onto the sink counter with a clink before stripping off my tank and sleep shorts. The buzz hits my ears before the tone and I grab for it, opening the message.

N: Anna…

Smirking, I don’t bother to respond. So I don’t see Nate’s second text until I’m done.

N: Don’t make me put you in a headlock.

Rolling my eyes, I hit respond.

A: Oh calm down you big baby, your potty mouth secret is safe with me.

His response is almost instantaneous

N: Watch your back!

Grinning to myself, I pull my hair products out, and start working them through my hair so it’s primed for a blow-out.

I have shit to get done.

Home Sweet Home

I’m strolling along the aisle at the grocery store, mindlessly leaning against the cart as I peer at the shelves.

My mind is occupied with my recent predicament and trying to remember the ingredients for the cupcakes, even though I’ve made the suckers tons of times before—it’s making me a little more scatterbrained than normal. Deciding to wing it, I just grab the essentials but the Chinese Kitchen catches my attention; it smells insanely good (looks like I’m not going to be worrying about lunch or dinner tonight).

I hit the end of the aisle, pausing to clear my head of crab Rangoon and beef and broccoli before figuring out which direction to turn. Going from memory, I hook a right and head towards the sweets, hoping they have the mini white chocolate peanut butter cups in stock this time.

Milk chocolate just doesn’t hit the spot the same way.

Definitely not dark either.

As I come to the front end of the aisle, I see the orange and black bag and know I’m in luck. Halloween had been a few days earlier so their candy aisle is still pretty thick with stock.

Walking toward the peanut butter cups, I nab two bags then proceed to grab a few bags of the mixed chocolates and gummy hard candies after I notice the half-off sign.

Everyone deserves a little variety.

It is the spice of life and all that jazz.

I favor the gummy and hard candies, but I’m not shy to an indulgence of the chocolate variety when the mood hits; my hips, thighs, tummy, and ass can attest to that, hence the second bag of peanut butter cups.

I finish grabbing the things I know I need, and some things I know I don’t, make it through the line for my Chinese—adding some chicken lo-mein, chicken fried rice, and teriyaki pork to my order—before hoofing it back across the store for the checkout lines.

Standing there with my head down, I dig through my purse for my wallet so I can pull out my savings and debit card, setting them on top of my bag when I have ahold of them. When my turn comes, I load my groceries onto the conveyer belt, and as I’m moving the Chinese from cart to belt I catch sight of a paper hanging behind the cashier in their little cubby.

It’s a flyer announcing an adoption day at the local pound. The picture they featured was of a tiny little thing—a husky—staring up at me begging for love. I attempt to read more, but it’s too small of a print from my distance. And instead of say, bellying up and over the belt to see better, I finish moving my shit from cart to belt and wait for the cashier to acknowledge me.

He’s rail thin, tall with shaggy brown hair and a little awkward with his movements but he smiles bright, even if it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Hello, ma’am, find everything alright today?”

I wanted to grab my compact from my purse to see if I’d aged ten years in the last forty-five minutes. Shopping without a list
could
do that to a person, but, thankfully, that isn’t the case. He can’t be more than five years younger than me—his nametag is that special color that indicates he’s old enough to sell tobacco products.

I smile back a little thinly.

“Sure did, thanks,” I reply, sliding my card through and keying in my PIN so all I have to do is wait for him to finish.  

He gives me a quick smile out of politeness and then proceeds to ring everything through, asking if plastic is fine.

I thought about correcting him and asking for paper just to be difficult after the ma’am comment, when I catch sight of the flyer again.

“It’s fine. Can I see that flyer behind you, please?”

Turning slightly, he grabs the flyer, handing it over before continuing to scan and load my things.

Scanning the page, I take in the information.

The details I hadn’t been able to read before let me know adoption day is Saturday and Sunday morning from 9:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. If an adoption is made during those times, they’ll waive the fee for spaying or neutering and discount the price on the microchips they put in to track your pet. The puppy in question is indeed a husky; one named Andy. He’s three months old and one of the animals up for adoption this weekend.

I was so intently focused on the flyer, ideas floating through my head, that I forgot where I was.

It took the cashier clearing his throat and repeating that damn word to get my attention.

“Ma’am? Ma’am, are you okay?” he asks, more out of manners than actual concern.

Holding out my receipt, he looks at me the same way one might look at a bug. With curiosity, but no real desire to get closer and investigate further.

I can’t take offense.

Luckily, with Dad’s business, I never had to work in the glamorous world of sales but I heard enough horror stories from people to last a lifetime.

My lips tip up slightly.

“Sorry about that. I’m fine, thank you.”

Grabbing my receipt with my left hand, I hold out the flyer with my right.

He waves his hands at it.

“You can keep that, I’ve got a whole stack back here,” he says, moving his arm to indicate where they are.

My eyes follow the movements of his arm but I see nothing.

I’m not sure if he’s telling the truth or wants the weirdo staring at flyers to move so he can continue ringing people through.

Shrugging, I stuff the flyer in my bag, put both hands on my cart and start to push out towards the doors that lead me to my car before giving a quick wave of thanks.

“Have a nice day, ma’am.”

Ugh.

I was buying some anti-aging cream the next time I hit Target.

A vat of it.

Strolling out to my car, I squint when the sun hits my eyes and I’m cursing at myself, yet again, for forgetting my sunglasses in the car.

Once I have all the groceries in the trunk and the cart in its corral, I slide in the front seat, do my thing of shimmying around to get comfy, get my sunglasses situated, and head for home.

*              *              *

I live in an older, one-bedroom house on the West side of town—about ten minutes from the store, fifteen from the main hub-bub of town, and twenty to twenty-five from my parents’ place.

I like that their house isn’t leaps and bounds away, but that it’s also not next door. Most of the time (and when I say most I mean about half) they at least give me a shout if they’re heading over, but it isn’t unheard of for any of my family to pop by unannounced.

My brother, Robby, and his wife, Maddy, live smack dab in the middle of town, with Maddy’s daycare run out of their house. She thought living there would make her more centrally located, therefore a better choice for parents. Robby didn’t give a shit just as long as Maddy was happy and stopped busting his balls to move there—his words. It also helps me because if Mom or Dad are out and about, they usually hit their place before mine. Maddy and Robby usually give me a heads up. That is, unless I let something slip; like that Robby was tired of Maddy busting his balls.

I didn’t get a warning for a month after that last time.

At least not from him.

Well worth it, in my opinion, to see Robby face-plant after tripping over a toy firetruck one of the kids left out, in his haste to vacate the room.

He shouldn’t have given me that wet willie.

Seriously,
ew
.

My place sits in a neighborhood filled with houses of the same design but all with something to make them different. Mine happens to be brick with a cute white picket fence that surrounds the front yard, which I
loved
when I got it (and still do).

The fence
and
the brick.

I’d bribed Robby and Nate with a pack of beer and some hot dogs to come out and help me repaint the fence one day. Unfortunately for them, I mentioned it to Mom who let it slip to Dad. He was over like a shot, downing the beer and bossing the boys around.

I had to promise not to tell Mom about another project again until they were done, and that was
if
they got over the fact that I’d hosed them off before I would let them step foot inside.

I didn’t need to figure out how to get white paint out of my beige carpet.

No thanks.

The windows and doors are a red that’s faded from years of rain, snow, and wind, but it works. I wasn’t about to mess with the cool effect of the color so Dad, being awesome in his Dad way, had even gotten me some weather protector to slather them up with so they didn’t get worse.

The house itself sits dead center of the yard with a wide walkway leading up a couple steps and to the front door, and a carport to the left. My absolute favorite part though, is the white arch that’s on either side of the top step where the roof juts out and up into a point. The arch has these intricate twists on the corners, like a web of vines that grew and spread.

That’s it.

Simple with some design.

It’s funky, kind of romantic in its own way, but it’s me.

*              *              *

I continue down the street before swinging a right and pulling up under the awning, smiling as I catch sight of the beds of flowers Mom and I had planted last spring.

I've got two rose bushes on each side; red on the ends and summer nights’ hybrid tea roses on the inside. Next to that we’d put in some snap dragons of assorted colors, threw in some tulips and ended with lilies. I’m not much of a green thumb, but I know how to turn my sprinklers on and throw the pretties some food. Luckily, Mom pops around frequently to check on her “baby”.

Considering the amount of attention the garden gets, I’m not sure who she’s referring to half the time.

Shutting my car down, I grab my purse from the passenger seat and my phone from the cubby before I open my door and heft myself out, bumping the door closed with my hip as I beep the locks and pop the trunk.  Loading down one of my arms with groceries, I hoof it to my door where I jumble my keys in my hand before I finally manage to grab the right one.

Holding open my storm door, I slide the key in the lock and walk through, letting the storm door bang shut behind me but leaving my inside door open as I continue down the short hallway to the open kitchen and living room at the back of the house. And right to the breakfast bar where I drop my armload before heading out and repeating the process.

That’s the great thing about my cream laminate countertops, no need to be extra gentle with them. As long as I don’t take a knife and start carving into them, they handle themselves well.

After dropping everything from my last trip I stand there for a moment, staring at the wall while I shake my arms out.

They had been painted a blinding white, which was definitely too blah for me, so I’d hit the hardware store with Maddy to grab paint chips. After comparing and arguing, then more comparing and arguing (the second round with a bottle of wine), she passed out and I decided on Wild Mist—an insanely light green color, but muted like, well, mist.

The kitchen itself isn’t huge but thanks to the open floor plan that connected it with the living room and placement of counters against both walls—one section jutting out for the breakfast bar—it’s pretty spacious. And, despite the limited space, I’ve managed to squeeze in four barstools; all of which are deep bronze in color with muted red cushions.

Mom and I had found the material at the craft store and reupholstered the previously beige cushions (way better in red).

Beyond the loveseat and couch sits my entertainment center that holds a flat screen Nate and Robby gifted me.

Little had I known, there was a hidden agenda to that sleek, flat, fifty-incher.

I often find Robby, Nate (when he’s around), or both, and even Dad on my doorstep on game day making themselves at home.

Mom wasn’t a big fan of the boys getting rowdy and making a mess of her living room, not to mention she had her girls over every Thursday night for “crochet” night (more like drink-wine-and-cackle night), so Dad was happy to leave. And Maddy’s daycare hours often ran late so no way was she letting them come in and shout their colorful language with kids around, therefore I was the only option left.

It helps that my living room doesn’t look straight out of a magazine. It says, ‘sit a spell, grab a drink, watch some TV and relax’.

Mom herself exudes and shows that in her actions, but her living room is so immaculate that it gives off that, don’t-touch-a-thing-or-you’ll-be-sorry, vibe.

All of us, Dad included, had found that the vibe rang true.

Though, to be fair, it wasn’t so much the messes in the living room as the attitude that was thrown her way over them.

Note: Check your attitude at the door.

My entertainment center is stocked with a huge selection of movies in the four drawers that make up the bottom, an Xbox 360 sits on the shelf to the left for my Netflix and Hulu binges, and a Wii on the shelf to the right—because I’d been all about that Wii-Fit, but now it’s drunken nights with Just Dance.