Page 48 of Sunday Morning

Everything he said to me was replayed on an endless loop.

“I’ve been coveting the fuck out of you since Easter Sunday.”

He knew I knew about his dad and the mystery mistress. Wesley must have known it was me.

I gulped, grabbing a rag to wipe the counter that was already clean.

“You won’t touch my guitar again.”

My heart stopped.

Isaac rounded the corner of the counter and ate up every inch of my personal space while plucking a black permanent marker from the cup of pens by the register. He removed the cap with his teeth. I had never seen him so angry.

I gasped as he grabbed the neck of my T-shirt and stretched it down my chest.

Never—ever—in the history of my eighteen years on earth had I felt so shocked and utterly speechless as my boyfriend’s older brother wroteISAAC’Son the swell of my left breast. As quickly as he charged into the shed and vandalized my boob with a permanent marker, he capped it and stomped out the door while grumbling, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He didn’t give me a chance to answer before slamming the door shut. It wasn’t Wesley’s affair.

Thank God.

Breathing heavily, I straightened my shirt and pressed a hand over the graffiti on my boob. Then I cupped my other hand over my mouth and released something between a laugh and a cry.

I wrote “Sarah’s” in tiny letters on the inside of Isaac’s guitar case, where it was nearly impossible to see unless you were actively looking for it. I did it because it made me feel like the guitar was mine. I was just a young woman with big dreams making a tiny mark in the music world.

It was stupid but also no big deal. How on earth did he see it?

I didn’t use a permanent marker. The punishment didn’t fit the crime.

“Oh my gosh!” I ran into the bathroom and grabbeda wad of paper towels and soap to wash the marker from my boob. My skin burned and bloomed red and raw as I scrubbed it like a dirty Russet potato, but the ink didn’t fade. Panic set in. It was summer. I went to the pool on the weekends, and Matt was counting down the days until the end of my imaginary period.

“Hello?”

I jumped, adjusted my shirt, and tossed the towels into the trash bin before opening the door. “Hi,” I said in a high-pitched voice to Beverly Whitmore.

Her fingers caressed the floral scarf holding her long red and gray hair away from her face. “I preordered half a steer. Do I pick it up here?”

I knew there was not half a steer in the tiny deep freezer.

“Did you try the house?” I asked.

She nodded. “No one answered.”

“Mrs. Cory is out of town this week,” I said.

And her husband is cheating on her.

“Um, let me see if I can find Mr. Cory.” I locked the register drawer, even though I didn’t think Beverly was there to rob the place, and then I jogged down the lane. I was scared to check the house again. What if Wesley was in the bedroom with the mystery mistress again? Surely not at three in the afternoon on a Wednesday with Isaac on the farm.

“Hello?” I called, inching up the stairs.

Nothing.

I ran out to the machine shed. “Mr. Cory?” I called, opening the door.

“What is it?” Satan popped his head around the corner, wiping grease off his hands with a rag.

I scowled. “Not you.”