“That wasn’t my idea.” The decision to include Shawn in the photo had been all Veronica, Diane’s campaign manager. Lisa had never asked for her reasoning, but she suspected Veronica thought Diane would get more votes if their “family” photo included someone who looked like the majority of the people voting.
Lisa hated that she was probably right.
“But you think it’s a good idea, don’t you?”
Lisa bit her lip.
“It is a good idea,” Charlene said quietly, answering her own question. “He’s a good idea, and I’m a bad idea.”
“Char, no.” Lisa held her tight, wishing there were something she could say, some magic string of words that could fix this. That could make it easy. But those words didn’t exist. “It’s just complicated,” she said.
“Can’t you just break up? I don’t think it would be so bad if you weren’t together.”
“I can’t break up with him. Not right before the election.”
“Is it really such a big deal that you stay with him? Rose is single.”
“My mom is a Black woman running for public office against a rich white man. Everything is a big deal.” Lisa frowned, chewing the inside of her cheek. This was a debate she’d had with herself countless times already. It always ended with the same result. “Rose being single is not the same as me dumping the Buford County Citizenship Award winner. Everyone loves Shawn, especially right now. And if Shawn . . .”
“Loves you,” Charlene offered.
“Loves our family,” Lisa continued, as if that had been what she’d intended to say all along, “it can only make my mom look better. And you know in a race like this, every vote counts. What if people seeing him with our family is the thing that makes the difference between my mom winning and losing?”
Charlene sighed, her fingers tapping out the seconds against Lisa’s wrist. Finally, Lisa felt her concede with a tiny shrug. “Yeah. I get it. And I do want your mom to win, if for no other reason than to see the look on my mom’s face.” Charlene lifted their intertwined fingers to her lips to kiss the back of Lisa’s hand. “But it still sucks.”
“I know,” Lisa agreed, trailing the tips of her fingers along Charlene’s spine.
Charlene nestled even closer to Lisa’s side, her cheek coming to rest just over Lisa’s heart as she squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry for being a Jealous Judy.”
“A what?”
“Oh, did I not tell you about the new Sunday school curriculum my mom bought?” Lisa could practically feel her roll her eyes. “There are all these picture books, and each one is a cautionary tale about a different character. There’s Jealous Judy and Gossiping Gladys and Proud Patsy and—”
“Are they all girls?”
“Yup.”
“Wow.”
“Are you even surprised?”
“Not really.”
Charlene was quiet for a second, then giggled. “Slutty Sally.”
“Are you serious?”
“No.”
Lisa burst out laughing, her shoulders convulsing hard enough to shake the bed. “Kleptomaniac Karen,” she managed to gasp. “Murderous Mabel.”
“Farting Francine.”
“Burping Betsy.”
“Cussing Cathy.”
“Lesbian Lisa.”
That was enough to make Charlene lift her head, looking at Lisa with her mouth open. “You really just used the L-word!”
“I really did.”
“While talking about my mother.”
“Oh yuck, don’t make it weird. But see, this is why you have nothing to worry about. I could never feel about him the way I feel about you.”
“Promise?” Charlene grinned, leaning in for a kiss.
“Promise,” Lisa said, and they melted into each other. Charlene tasted like strawberries and summer; her soft curves felt like home. Lisa wished they could stay like this forever, just the two of them in their own little world.
“Char?” Lisa whispered into Charlene’s sweet scent. Her heart raced, but she was ready. She knew she was ready. And this felt like the right time. “I have another L-word for you.”
Charlene pulled back, looking into her eyes. Her face was flushed and hopeful, but a teasing smile still played on her lips. “Lemon? Light bulb? Lettuce?”
Lisa laughed. “Yup. Lettuce. You guessed it.” She swallowed, the rush of her own blood filling her ears, flooding her body with heat. She felt like she was teetering on the edge of a cliff, wind tickling the back of her neck, gravity already tugging her shoulders, urging her over the edge. Would she fall, or would she fly?
Her eyes met Charlene’s.
“I . . . lettuce you,” Lisa said, her voice soft.
Fly, her heart whispered.
Charlene smiled, resting her forehead against Lisa’s. Their breath mingled together, their heartbeats a shared song. “I lettuce you, too.”
Chapter Seven
JUSTIN
We park on the side of the road, then walk out onto the sidewalks edging the mile-long black ribbon that spans the width of Stone River, dodging ponytailed moms with jogging strollers and bare-chested men sporting athletic shorts and AirPods. By day, Wilson Bridge boasts a steady stream of outdoor fitness enthusiasts, but once the sun sets, it tends to remain empty, save the occasional first-date blowhard trying to convince their companion that it’s haunted.
I guess that contingent has a lot more ammo now that a genuine dead body has turned up. Bonus points for it being so old that they can make up any creepy story they want about its origins; anything may as well be true.
We stop about halfway across, massive steel beams rising up on either side of us to crisscross far above our heads, and lean over the railing to look down at the churning water below. It’s a long drop, at least fifty feet. On the north riverbank, a couple of police cars and a boxy white van sit parked at crooked angles, their passengers picking along the shoreline like uniformed ants. The van has BUFORD COUNTY CORONER printed on the side.
I’d pictured crews out with shovels, digging up the shoreline, maybe some divers in scuba gear combing the river bottom. What I see is far less exciting, just a few uniformed officers milling about, sipping coffee from disposable cups. There isn’t even a body bag.
Even at this distance, I can make out Sheriff Gibson’s imposing silhouette striding lazily among the officers. More than once, I’ve awakened in the middle of the night to find him at our door, holding my mom by the arm to keep her from tipping over.
We aren’t the only macabre spectators on the bridge; a few yards to our right, a group of excited twentysomethings with perfect hair wave selfie sticks, stretching for the best angles to capture the entirely unimpressive scene down below. Farther down the sidewalk, a bearded guy in a matching scarf and beanie sets up a tripod.
“Well, this is depressing,” Alyssa says, giving voice to my thoughts.
I nod my agreement. “They could at least turn the police lights on. Make it feel a little more CSI-y and not . . .”
“Really boring?”
“I was going to go with pathetic, but yeah.”
A few minutes later, the coroner’s van pulls away, and Alyssa sighs. “There go my dreams of anything exciting ever happening in this town. Even our dead bodies are dull.”