Rough Edge

by Landish, Lauren

  My face turns hot and fiery. “He didn’t. I did. I think.” I talk into the pillow. “I don’t know. Reed said I was a bitch.”

  At that, Emily’s eyes jump wide. “Holy shit, what did you say? Reed is like the quintessential sweetheart who would never . . . but he did. What did you say?”

  She’s on the verge of shaking me again so I spill it all. How Brody’s kind words had made me feel warm and fuzzy, and that had scared the shit out of me. How his encouragement to tell Dad everything had felt like another decree from someone else who thought they knew better than I do about my own life. How in my anger, I’d lashed out in the one way I’d known would hurt him the most.

  Emily stays quiet, letting me get it all out. When I reach the end, she shakes her head. “So, let me get this straight. You, a known secret-keeper, let him in on your secret, which he’s kept. And he, an apparently quiet and non-sharing sort, showed you his soft belly about his family and his big hopes and dreams. And at the first sign of his not letting you walk all over him, which let’s be honest here . . . you like to test people that way . . . you went straight for his jugular and threw it all back in his face. That about sum it up?”

  I nod sullenly. “Reed said I don’t know the half of it, though, said something about a Tannen Farm, but Brody’s never mentioned it. I don’t know . . . I feel like I don’t know anything.”

  “Do you know that you have feelings for him?” Emily asks bluntly.

  “We said casual. I’ve got the garage and racing and . . . I don’t have time. I can’t—”

  Emily snaps her fingers in my face, cutting me off. “Excuses. You’ll notice that I didn’t ask if you have feelings for Brody. I asked if you know, because everyone else does. You’re the one sitting on the starting line well after the checkered flag dropped.” She grins. “That was good, yeah?”

  I groan at the analogy that sounds like something Dad would say once upon a time. “It’s not NASCAR. It’s drag racing and you know it.”

  “You know what you need to do?” Emily asks, leading me where she wants me. I’m so messed up that I even let her.

  “Apologize?”

  She laughs . . . hard. “Apologize? Oh, God, Rix, you are so clueless sometimes. I swear all the time with bros has done you no favors at all. Think . . . what do you need to do?” I blink, not following this time. With a sigh, she tells me. “Grovel. Girl, you need to apologize, grovel, and tell him that you freaked out because you have big, scary feelings for him that make you want to spend forever in his arms, have his beautiful babies, and watch sunsets on the porch when you’re both old and gray.”

  Cringe. Massively uncomfortable cringe that makes my whole body shiver from head to toe.

  “That’s maybe more than where I’m at right now? And telling him even a bit of that sounds awful. And Brody’s not really that kind of guy either. I don’t think that’s . . .”

  At Emily’s harsh glare, I taper off. Not many people can shut me up with a look. She’s one of them.

  “I’m gonna be honest here, so listen up and let Girly Ol’ Emily tell you something you don’t know about guys. Their masculinity is fragile sometimes, especially a guy like Brody who’s probably used to being the biggest swinging dick in the room. Not literally, but figuratively . . . oh, except maybe literally?” Her brow quirks, her hands moving through the air, measuring big to small, asking about his dick, apparently. I do not answer. “Later for that convo, then . . . where was I?”

  “Something I don’t know about guys?” I prompt dryly. Because I’m so ignorant about men.

  “Right. A guy like Brody is tough, with this hard exterior and stoic façade. And you, you’re like a sledgehammer, coming in and banging away . . . see what I did there?” She looks pleased with herself but shakes her head, hopefully focusing. “He let himself be vulnerable with you, which is probably a big fucking deal to him, and you punished him for it because of issues you have, ones that have nothing to do with him.” She holds up one finger. “You need to let him know it’s okay to share with you and that you want to share with him.” A second finger comes up. “You need to tell him that you have feelings that are scaring the shit out of you and that you overreacted because you’re a lucky bitch who doesn’t know what she’s got when it’s right in front of her.”

  “Harsh much?” She’s right, I know she is, but each of her words is another painful reminder of how badly I fucked this up.

  “Holding someone’s heart is a big responsibility, one you just showed him you can’t be trusted with. So yeah, apologize, but more importantly, be worthy and hope he gives you another shot.”

  Shit. Fuck. Damn.

  “So, how do I do that?”

  “That part’s up to you, Rix. You’ll figure it out. Might I suggest a ballpeen hammer style rather than another sledgehammer approach, though? And also, I just said peen and somehow was not talking about penises . . . penis-i? I would like karmic good girl credit for that.”

  “Penises,” I correct.

  She nods, grabbing her wine. “Okay, so now tell me all about racing . . . finally.”

  I pick up my beer and tell her about everything I’m doing, from racing my Mustang to designing entire systems for the other racers at the track. Somewhere around nitrous oxide percentage ratios, I lose her, but she still nods along, and I realize how much I wanted to share this with her all along.

  And maybe how I should share it with Dad too.

  Chapter 20

  Erica

  This might be the craziest thing I’ve ever done, but I’m doing it. I’m not giving in to my own fears and insecurities this easily.

  At least that’s what I tell myself right until I pull up to the gate at the Bennett ranch. Well, the closed gate of the ranch, at least. Shit, I hadn’t thought of that. I only planned on coming out here, saying all the things I’ve been practicing in my head to Brody’s face, and hoping for the best. I didn’t have a plan B for what to do if that didn’t work out.

  Hopefully, this isn’t a sign of bad things to come.

  I stare at it blankly for a moment before I remember that Shayanne insisted that we trade numbers at Hank’s, and I’m suddenly really grateful for their overbearing behavior that night.

  Me: Hey, it’s Rix. I’m at the ranch. Can you let me in?

  Shayanne: Brody’s being an asshole. That your fault?

  Me: . . .

  Shayanne: Are you here to fix it?

  Me: Yes.

  Shayanne: On my way then.

  That was easier than I expected. Or maybe she’s just setting the trap and I’m waiting here like a dumb fuck for her to come kill me in person? But I’ve got to try with Brody, even if it means his sister trying her damnedest to hurt me for hurting him.

  I see a small ATV coming toward the gate, a plume of brown dust billowing behind it. When it gets close, Shayanne brakes hard, almost drifting it to a stop by the fence.

  “Thanks for letting me in.”

  “Not happening.” Her eyes are narrow slits of accusation. “I’m not sure what you did, but Brody damn near tore the house apart last night, slamming cabinets and bitching about the back door that hasn’t closed right in ten years. The boys resorted to getting him drunk as a method of controlling his hissy fit. He’s sleeping it off at home.”

  She’s watching me carefully, scanning for my reaction, and I stand tall, almost at attention. “Okay . . . well, will you tell him I came by then? When he wakes up . . . he can call me if he wants.”

  Plan B . . . Plan C . . . I didn’t have any plan at all. And now it’s biting me in the ass. Another failure on my part.

  Shayanne groans, shaking her head, and hooks a thumb over her shoulder. “Go on to the house. He’d skin me alive if I got between whatever this is.” She swirls her finger at me. “Not to mention, I can’t wait to get a front-row seat. I knew it.”

  She starts humming under her breath, and I look at the still-closed gate. “So, are you going to let me in then?”
>
  Her head tilts, her right eyebrow raising. “He’s at home. At his house?” At my confused look, she laughs. “Oh, my cheesus and crackers, that’s too funny. You don’t know anything, do you? This is gonna be fun.”

  “So are we gonna keep doing this or are you going to fill me in here?” I’m losing patience, and nerve, and the barely-there sweetness in my voice.

  A few minutes later, I’m following her directions—getting back in my truck, following the white fence down the road to the next gate marked Tannen Farm. I guess Reed was right about that, which definitely doesn’t bode well for me because I’m afraid he’s right about my being a complete bitch too.

  Just like Shayanne said, the gate opens automatically, and I drive up to a red and white farmhouse. It’s worn and faded but cute with simple lines and a small porch along part of the front. The wood shutters on either side of several of the windows make it look warm and cozy, as does the dog lying lazily on the front porch.

  I get out, calling out gently, “Hey there, big guy. Who’s a good boy?” The dog’s head lifts, and he sniffs the air before letting out a baleful howl.

  “Shut up, Murphy!”

  Brody’s rough-voiced shout comes from inside the house, telling me I’m in the right place, at least. It’s showtime, as Emily says. Time to put it all out there, pick my guts apart, lay my fears bare, and hope that it’s enough for Brody to forgive me and take another chance on us.

  He doesn’t have to. We said casual from the get-go. Well, I did and he agreed. I’m not sure when that changed for me, but it did.

  I pet Murphy on the head. “Good boy,” I whisper, knowing he had every reason to bark at a stranger. I knock on the door, calling out, “Brody?”

  There’s a crash from inside, like Brody is stumbling and falling toward the door, so I open it and peek my head inside. It’s darker, but the sunlight is shining through the windows, throwing lines of light through a wood-paneled living room. Brody looks like hell . . . hair a mess, beard scruffy, eyes sunken and purple-smudged. But he also looks like heaven . . . his chest bare and a hopeful spark as he looks at me. “You okay?”

  “Depends. Are you real or not?” He pulls his hat off, runs his fingers through his hair, then shoves the hat back on. I think he’s nervous at my sudden arrival to a place he never invited me to. Come to think of it, he might still be mad as fuck. That’s a distinct possibility too, unfortunately.

  I hold an arm out. “You wanna pinch me and find out?”

  Brody squints a little and reaches behind me, pinching my ass. I yelp and smack at him, but it does help break some of the awkward tension. “You want something to drink? I’m sure the guys left coffee for me.” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, turning and heading through a doorway into what seems to be the kitchen. I follow to find him pouring two cups and take one with a smile of thanks.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I almost spit my coffee out, shocked. “What? Why are you apologizing?”

  “I’m not sure, but I obviously did something to piss you off and apologizing seems like a safe bet. Rule one-oh-three in the guidebook.” Distance. He’s putting so much between us again with sarcasm and asshole-itis.

  I sigh and set the coffee on the counter. “I’ve been practicing this, so I’m just gonna do it in one go. Don’t interrupt me, okay?”

  He blinks and holds a hand out, giving me the floor, where I pace back and forth while he looks on.

  “I overreacted, that’s the short of it.” He takes a sip of his coffee, not telling me anything with his expression. “You were trying to be supportive, I know that, but it felt like you were telling me what to do. Like everyone else has done. In case you haven’t noticed, I have a bit of a hair trigger with that. I quite literally ran away from home and joined the military the last time someone tried to do that.”

  His lip twitches, almost a smirk, giving me the balls to keep going.

  “I didn’t run away this time. I went nuclear, slashing and burning everything. Slashing and burning you. I think there’s a lot I don’t know about you.” I look around the house we’re standing in, feeling like shit for never even questioning where he lived beyond ‘the ranch’. We’ve spent many nights together, but they’ve all been at my apartment, something that didn’t occur to me until it was too late. “But I want to know. I want to share things with you and be here for you to share with. Whenever you’re ready. If you’re ever willing to do that with me again.”

  He’s quiet for a moment, just watching me coolly, and I feel like I’m awaiting his verdict.

  “You asked for casual, but I think we both know we left that behind a while ago.” His eyes dare me to disagree or argue, but I stay utterly silent.

  My hope cracks under the weight of the moment. This is him letting me down easy, ripping off the Band-Aid slowly. Hypocrite, I think, knowing he said it was kinder to Reed in the long run to do it in one yank. Yet, here he is, pulling at my edges one tiny tear at a time. Maybe I don’t deserve the kinder, gentler version of Brody. I didn’t give him one of me.

  “I’m not a fairy tale kind of guy,” he says carefully, his eyes not wavering, “not looking for some Disney happily ever after shit. But.”

  I look up, not even realizing that my eyes had fallen to the floor. “But?”

  “You’re the first person I think of when I wake up. You’re who I want to call at the end of the day to talk about the crazy shit that happens out here. You’re this whirlwind of epic power that I want to stand back and watch as you make your own path to wherever you’re going.” He lets that sink in, for both of us, I think, because when he speaks again, his voice is gruffer, like he’s choking the words out. “I want to tell you things and spend time with you—not casually, which is hard for me too. But only if you want that.” His brow lifts, and I realize he’s letting me set ground rules too. Because he sees me as an equal and doesn’t want to sway me. It means more than he’ll ever know, but all I can do is nod in agreement and smile as hope blooms inside me.

  “Okay then. Let’s try this again. How about we start here? This is my house.” He spreads his arms out wide, his wingspan nearly touching the cabinets on either side of the kitchen. “I grew up here, learned how to make those pancakes you love so much right there at that stove,” he says, pointing to a white appliance that’s seen better days, “from my Mom. She was amazing, and I miss her every fucking day. Losing her changed everything.”

  Shadows pass through his eyes, and I know there’s more there, and the urge to ask hits me so hard. But I have to let him tell me when he’s ready. He will. I have to trust that.

  “Can we get out of here? Will you walk with me, let me show you the farm?”

  I’m rocked, my heart leaping as I realize the enormity of his question. That he would even consider sharing this with me now is a sign of how forgiving he is, how invested in us he is. I’m equally and simultaneously scared shitless and excited beyond my wildest expectations.

  “I would love to see it.” It’s the plain truth. I want to know what made this man who he is. My armor is thick. Reaching deep into my core and finding softness is a difficult and treacherous dig. For Brody, I think his hard exterior and cocky arrogance are only surface deep. The true core of him is something much softer. No, stickier. He’s a nurturer, a put-others-firster. But I doubt anyone ever gets that far, only seeing the asshole he portrays so well.

  He steps over the dog, who’s gone back to sleep by the front door. “That’s Murphy, Brutal’s dog. ‘Bout the only thing he’s good for is cleaning up under the kitchen table when Cooper doesn’t like his vegetables.” He chuckles a little at that, and I remember his telling me about their cornhole tournament championship, which Cooper won, as expected.

  I tell the soundly sleeping dog hello as we walk outside. In my mind, I promise him my vegetables too.

  “Come on. Goats first. They’re always everyone’s favorite.”

  We walk across the yard-slash-driveway area toward a metal barn. Brod
y pulls the door open and leads me through to a fenced-in pen. I almost immediately have to plant my feet so I’m not knocked down by the herd of animals swarming me. “Hi!” My voice is high-pitched, tight with excitement. “Holy shit! Cowboy, look!”

  A black and brown spotted goat is trying to climb my leg, jump into my arms, and otherwise love me unconditionally. Or at least only conditional on petting her. I bend down a little, scratching behind her ears.

  “That’s Baarbara. She’s mostly friendly, most of the time. Well, occasionally—NO! Don’t let her get your ponytail! She’ll chew the ends right off!”

  I shake my head and feel a little tug as Baarbara loses her tasty snack. A twist of my ponytail puts my hair up into a bun at my nape and out of nibbling range. I hope. Brody moves close, fingering the ends of my hair in a move that feels ridiculously intimate. The air charges between us, and for a moment, I’m certain he’s going to kiss me.

  “These are Shay’s goats. She uses their milk to make her soaps,” Brody says, cracking the tension and stepping away as another wave of attack-goats approaches. He goes on to tell me how she started small, selling at the farmers market where I met her the first time, and later, expanding into the operation she has now with a website, international shipping, resort orders, and specialty holiday scents. “She did the same thing with her canning and baking stuff. Started out with just smashed pumpkin puree in the fall, but now she has a rotation of items she makes each season. She’s always looking for new recipes and her, Brutal, and Bobby figure out what they can plant and when it’ll be ready so she can start advertising. She’s turned into quite the entrepreneur.”

  The pride he feels at his sister’s success is obvious and vaguely parental. “I haven’t tried her soaps, but if they’re anything like the jelly or the cake I had, they’re amazing. I’ll definitely have to stock up at the next farmers market.”

  Brody nods, humming under his breath. He does this sometimes when he’s thinking or figuring out how to say something. Every word out of his mouth is deliberate and intentional, nearly the opposite of my tendency to pop off. I breathe and let him speak when he’s ready without jumping in to start the conversation, whatever it is.