Late to the Party ✔

3. As pretty as a peach

She'd expected to come face-to-face with Jeanie at some point. She'd been dreading the moment, tossing and turning in her bed at night with her husband snoring next to her, rehearsing what she'd say. She'd be polite but uninterested. She'd mention George, her kids. They'd have nothing in common anymore, and that'd be the end—one less thing to worry about.

The problem was she'd never practiced for when Jeanie would come hurtling back into her life like the stormwind she'd always been.

She locked the car door, the last bag of groceries cradled in her left arm, when she heard it: kids laughing, and someone else shouting at them. She walked towards the street, hoisting the bag higher, and only just jumped back in time to avoid being overrun by the Sawyer boys from two blocks down.

"What in—?"

She dropped the bag. It crashed onto the concrete with a dull thud, the paper tearing, an orange rolling towards the bushes.

She hadn't had time to sigh, hadn't had time to wonder who the kids had been running from — not before a woman came sprinting down the pavement, kicking up her skirt with every step to reveal bare feet and tanned knees, fist raised as if ready to smack someone. She stopped right in front of her and leaned over, arms resting on her thighs as she tried to catch her breath, the kids disappearing into the Baker's backyard. "Ah fuck," she said, swinging her arms in defeat, and Mary knew it was her, knew it even before she whirled around and caught sight of her standing there stock still like a heron.

Folks used to say Mary was pretty as a peach. They never said the same thing about Jeanie, who they branded wild, dirty, dark-haired, almost like she was a horse that couldn't be tamed. They failed to appreciate the raw beauty in her: her coiling curls and deep piercing eyes, freckles spread around her tanned face like crumbs on a plate. They didn't see her mischievous smile, the slightly crooked front teeth, created to sweep you off your feet with the force of a rainstorm.

It was very sorry that such great genes were wasted on someone who would never pass them on.

"Mary?"

She had practiced for this question. Now that Jeanie was right before her, she couldn't recall one single sentence she'd rehearsed.

"Mary, is that you?"

Jeanie's eyes, so familiar still, flittered over her body, and that was equally familiar—she felt exposed, like the bag of groceries, its contents falling out just for her to see. Then, one of Jeanie's precious smiles lit up the whole of her, undefeatable.

Mary's stomach churned. She was scared her voice wouldn't work if she tried to speak, so she felt relieved when she managed to say, "Yeah," and it was only slightly breathless, "I mean, yes, it's me."

"You live here?" Brown eyes examined the bungalow, a frown lining her forehead, and Mary knew she was slightly disappointed. "Why didn't — ouch!"

Jeanie grabbed onto the hood of the car, lifting one foot: a line of blood trickled from between her toes, dripping onto the driveway.

"You're bleeding," Mary said, the obvious. She didn't think about it; old instincts awakened, reaching out for her. "Hold onto me. I'll fix you right up inside. My daughter used to do this all the time."

She wasn't supposed to. She wasn't supposed to let Jeanie throw an arm around her, sway under the weight of her warm body, damp skin touching hers, curls mixing with her straight, blonde locks, wasn't supposed to note the new grown-up scent of her, like oncoming rain on a spring day.

It was the Christian thing to do, she told herself, as Jeanie settled onto the couch and she hurried to gather a towel and Sheldon's first-aid kit, the best-stocked one in the house. Her plans and intentions left out on the street, she knelt down at Jeanie Lucas's feet, and it wasn't the first time either.