by Ginger Scott
“Okay, you make a good case,” I say, smirking at her and pulling one of the bottles into my hand. Reed used to bring this home when something big happened and we needed to celebrate. I haven’t shared a bottle with him in a few years, so as revved as my palate is to pour a big glass at ten in the morning, I can turn down the temptation that will no doubt come with an overwhelming side of feelings.
“Tonight. If that’s okay?” I take both bottles and move them to the corner of the counter.
“Fine by me.” Sarah shrugs and follows me deeper into the kitchen to snoop through a few of the cabinets on the hunt for a snack.
“In the fridge. Rosie made fresh blueberry muffins,” I say.
“Rosie’s the boss!” Sarah doesn’t hesitate, reaching in and grabbing the biggest one on the rack. She takes a bite of the top, eating it like an apple, and I grimace because Rosie’s muffins are meant to be savored. It’s practically criminal to just kill off the muffin top like that without truly appreciating it.
“How’s the old man?” My friend talks while she chews. I lean into the counter, folding my arms over my favorite T-shirt. It’s the last Coolidge High one I have from when I went there. There are eight, almost nine, holes in it. I can’t bear the thought of throwing it away. This shirt, it feels like my marriage—holding on by a literal thread. I’m sure there’s all kinds of deeper meaning behind why I chose to wear it today, for Reed, but on the surface, it’s just the perfect amount of wear for the cotton. People try to mimic this feel—vintage. You can’t fake real vintage, though. A thousand loads of laundry have tumbled with this shirt to make it the masterpiece it is now.
“He’s doing pretty good, considering. I mean…I know he’s frustrated. He does physical therapy three times a week, and the progress has been so slow. Deep down, I think he knows that he’s never going to really be able to leave the chair for long. But you know Buck—stubborn as hell.” I glance to the main room where Buck’s back has turned to us and the hum of Sunday morning football echoes.
“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, huh?” Sarah says.
I shake with a single laugh and blink my gaze to my friend’s. I don’t really have an answer for her because as much as she’s being funny about it, I just can’t joke about what Reed’s put his body through. I lived it—I still live it in my nightmares. It’s a bye-week. I almost wish his team’s off week was later in the season, so I could spread out my worrying. Reed’s been injured for most of preseason and the first game, because of a calf strain. I hope like hell that nagging injury nags just a little longer. Not that Reed will get on the field much. Duke Miller’s the young stud, head still on his shoulders—for now. Reed is backup.
The team didn’t have a problem with Reed leaving. This trip is about more than just his Jeep. His name’s on the deed for the six hundred acres we just sold to a developer on the north end of town. The lawyer’s coming out with the documents later today. The Jeep just inspired Reed to do this in person, rather than by DocuSign.
Somehow, I missed Jason’s car pull in while I was talking with Sarah in the kitchen, but the unmistakable purr followed by a slam of a Porsche door has triggered the flop sweats.
“Jesus, you look like a teenager, nervous sweats and pale face.” Sarah snorts a little with her laugh. My friend is the queen at letting anything heavy just roll off her chest. Her response to Reed’s defiance of what’s best for his head and body is “suit yourself, hope like hell you don’t die.” That’s how Sarah is about everything—it’s why she’s not dancing with a company, and why she teaches at our old high school where she can practically get away with murder, but still keep her benefits because the principal is in love with her.
I don’t have the luxury of being cavalier. I love that ass-hat, despite wanting to throat-punch him for this last contract.
“Come on, let’s cut them off at the door. I wanna drive Jason’s car.” My friend skips from her chair to the door in a few long strides, looping her arm through Jason’s just as he’s about to say hi to me. I’m left face to face with the man of my dreams, and I can’t think of a damn thing to say to him, because I know the moment I open my mouth I will inadvertently start a fight.
His shoulders sag, and the overweight duffle he’s carrying on one arm slides to the floor where he pushes it with his foot over to the side. His eyes are so tired. If I brought that up, though, he’d just tell me it was from the car ride here, when I know it’s not. I know how bright and hungry those green eyes are supposed to be, and I know they’ve been dimmed for quite some time.
Reed paints me with his gaze before his lips part slightly and his eyes move on to the very different home behind me. Sometimes, I forget that he grew up here. It’s nothing like the bachelor pad—albeit enormous bachelor pad—that he spent high school and college summers in; now his dad and Rosie stay in a master bedroom they converted from most of the garage, because there’s no way his dad is making it upstairs. Clear pathways determined what furniture stayed and what had to go, and assistance bars are mounted on almost every wall.
My hands automatically run up my face, like erasers. I hate this uneasiness. There’s no reason we can’t just talk, but I overthink every single subject, and I know he’s doing the same.
“Hey!” Buck’s drawn-out celebratory welcome comes to both of our rescue. My husband’s face contorts into a strained smile—it kills him to see his dad like this. Buck knows, and it’s the reason he always rests extra before Reed comes home. There are a lot of things Buck can’t control, but he still tries to, for his son’s sake.
“Hey, Old Man.” Reed grabs his dad’s hand in his palm, wincing when their grip doesn’t align quite right. The touch is different. Reed leans down and hugs his dad with his other arm.
“You get here in that—piece-of-shit car?”
I chuckle out loud and Reed’s head turns enough to catch my eyes. The brightness is there for just a moment, and it’s while we’re both laughing at his brother’s expense.
“It’s an expensive piece-of-shit, Dad. But yeah, Jason drove,” Reed says through a crooked smirk.
“Shit can still…be expensive,” Buck says, laying his hand on the controls for his chair to move back and make room for Jason and Sarah to swing the front door open wider.
We all get silent and look away, but Jason already knows.
“Dad made a joke about my car again, didn’t he?” Jason says, his words drawing a bigger laugh from Reed that breaks the rest of our silence.
Right now, everything feels so good. It’s all too good, and I know it’s fleeting. I make the most of it and step over to Reed’s back, sliding my hand down the familiar curves of his shoulders and bicep until my hand reaches his wrist. I give it a squeeze, closing my eyes as I bend down for his duffle. Reed leans into me enough that the moment I stand straight, we’re chest to chest.
“I got it.”
His eyes move from my right, to my left, and everything we are flashes between us. It’s the same every time I see him. This is where most couples would kiss, standing close like this. But we don’t. We haven’t kissed, really kissed, since the day he left for the airport to visit the “miracle specialist” on brain-and-spine trauma. A positive report turned into a one-year deal, and I didn’t know a thing about it until it was too late—ink on paper, news on Bleacher Report.
Instead…now, we have quiet. A thickness settles into my chest, and the heaviness takes over my lungs as Reed’s mouth closes and the delicate smile that was there for that small second fades.
I blink, then look down, stepping back as my hand falls away, giving up its tentative hold on Reed’s arm. I wish I could uncork one of those bottles of wine right now, drink it down in one breath, then maybe relax for the first time in years.
“Awkward,” Sarah says, her special brand of cringe-worthy humor.
I roll my eyes at my friend and Reed moves on with his bag, heading up the stairs to our room—Buck and Rose’s old room. I instantly think about the nigh
t, and how we’ll both pretend we’re exhausted and roll over facing opposite walls so we can avoid talking for a little while longer. It hurts to think about and predict, but not nearly as much as it hurts when it happens and I’m in it. There’s this invisible layer covering us and keeping us apart. I don’t know how to tear through it. I miss him. Why can’t I just say that and mean it, and him accept it for what it is—love?
Buck and Jason move back to the living room; I retreat to the kitchen and wait until I’m alone with my friend so I can scold her.
“Can you just not…” I flash my eyes wide and hold my open palms out to my sides. There are so many words to finish that phrase. The options are too many, really. Could you not be you? Could you not make me feel sick for your own amusement? Could you just not add drama to what hurts for once in your freaking life?
I don’t have to finish that statement, though, because those are all things I’ve said to Sarah over two-plus decades of friendship. She’s untrainable.
“You didn’t tell him about the Jeep.”
I spin to face my friend and press my hands flat on the counter as I blow out heavily and slide my palms across the surface, letting my head fall forward until my hair covers my face.
“Nope. I didn’t.” I lift my chin and blow away enough strands to spot Sarah through my hair. She circles the kitchen island and heads right to the stash of wine, picking up the closest bottle and sliding it gently toward me.
Without a word, I grab two glasses from the cabinet behind me and pour a generous amount for both of us, then raise one glass for a toast with my friend. I let my glass hover as she does the same. The longer we sit like this, the harder it gets to hold in our laughter. Neither of us can think of good things to raise our glasses to. Eventually, we shrug and press the rims against our lips drinking as if we’re on vacation in Vegas.
Sarah sets her glass down before me, more than half gone in the first drink. She sighs heavily, then levels me with the most sincere, deadpan gaze she can muster.
“We’re gonna need more of those muffins.”
Chapter Three
Reed
Whenever I’m in someone’s office, or someone’s house, or a hotel, and there’s a picture on the wall that’s a little bit off—slanted—I can’t help but try to fix it. A little nudge usually does the trick, but sometimes, it’s just the way the nail was hit, and there’s nothing I can do.
That’s what this place feels like. It’s one, enormous, desperately crooked picture, and I can’t do a damn thing to make anything in it straight and level again.
I toss my bag on the floor and collapse face-first into the bed, reaching up to unbury one of the pillows as I breathe in the scent of the bedspread. It smells of honey and lavender—Nolan’s favorite lotion. Eyes closed, I live in the past for almost a full minute before cracking my lids open and twisting my head to the side to stare at the open closet filled with her clothes.
There’s a wide space where her things are pushed to the left and mine, at least the clothes that I’ve left here, are pushed to the right.
Fucking symbolic.
My phone buzzes a few times in my pocket, so I eventually give in and roll to my side to pull it out and read. They’re messages from my agent, Tom. I’m not crazy about the guy personally, but he gets the job done. He got me this contract—every penny from my last one, too. I miss working with Dylan, though. She had become like family, but when she and Jason broke up, it became almost impossible to deal with the tension, and I’m more committed to my brother’s career goals than to being faithful to Dylan.
Funny thing is, Nolan wishes I stuck with her. What started as college jealousy turned into a pretty tight friendship between the two of them. And when Nolan was pushing for me to retire after the neck surgery, Dylan was in her corner.
I click through Tom’s string of texts and get the gist—he has some interviews lined up for me when I get back to OKC—and I text him back OK.
“Are you sleeping?”
I’m tempted to fake it and scare Peyton when she gets close, but I miss her too much to waste time on that. I roll to my other side and find her clinging to the doorway, her body hidden by the hallway wall.
“Hey, Champ. Nah, I’m up. Just…” I breathe out a laugh as I prop my head up with my elbow and rest my cheek on my palm. “Decompressing from the all-night drive with your uncle Jason.”
My daughter laughs quietly and looks down, bringing one of her feet inside the room and sweeping it back and forth on the floor. She’s wearing jeans and one of my old sweatshirts, but her hair is a tangled mess, which probably means she slept in that.
“Get in late?” I lift a brow.
She glances at me, and her eyes widen. Something about her reaction tells me to sit up, so I swing my legs around and face her with my feet on the floor and head tilted suspiciously to the side.
“Mom didn’t tell you?”
Her fingers go right to her mouth, fingernail lodged between top and bottom teeth.
Oh hell.
“Tell me what?” I ask hesitantly. My head somehow leans even more to the side, so much so that I have to strain my eyes to keep my gaze on her. My heart has also sped up. Last month, she got a tattoo. A rose with something flying around it that she says is a hornet but looks like a dirty fly to me. She got it from some high-school tool in a garage band, who is still on my watch list for the day he turns eighteen and I can pound his ass. Nolan made her call me and tell me herself. I’m braced for a piercing this time.
“I dented the Jeep.” Her words come out quietly, through crooked lips and only half her mouth. Her eyes flit to mine then right back down the spot on the floor where her foot is now nervously painting side to side.
Frozen, I’m glad she’s not looking me in the eyes because I can feel the way they’re bugging out. I’m relieved she hasn’t let some douchebag put a hole in her body, but I’m also preparing myself for this new turn—the one where she somehow dented my Jeep.
“You hit it with a ball or something?” I throw this sad attempt out quickly, knowing that’s not the case. She grimaces at me and rolls her eyes; I dip my gaze and force her not to look away again.
“I take that as a no?” I blink slowly and she shakes her head.
“I took it to the desert,” she croaks out.
Of course she did. My mouth gasps out a “Ha” and I relax my shoulders. Clearly, she’s already been punished. Nolan always takes care of that—bad cop to my good cop. She’s here to play on my sympathies, and I hate that it always works. Daddy’s girl is a legit real thing.
“You get hurt?” I sit up straight and fold my hands in my lap.
“No. I didn’t even go that far. I didn’t see one of the barrels when I pulled out from the river bottom though, and I kinda…sorta…” She doesn’t finish, but really, is there a need?
My head tilts back as I stare at the ceiling, and I let my mouth fall open.
“How bad is it?” I keep my focus on the ceiling beam until I can calm down.
“Grampa said he’ll have Jerry fix it up. Said it’s mostly paint and a little body work.” I’m almost proud that my girl actually nailed down a solution before I got home. I also know that body work will probably take a week, because Jerry was one of the first body shop guys my dad ever hired when he opened the dealership in Tucson. Jerry’s the best, too, but he’s also slow as hell. And I’m supposed to head back to Oklahoma in two days.
I nod as I right my head and look my daughter in the eyes.
“I’m not mad,” I lie. I’m steaming mad, but what the hell good would that do.
“I’m…disappointed,” I say next, and the sound of it makes me laugh internally. How many times did my mom say those words to me when I did something dumb. My pops was never really much of the disciplinary—probably because he didn’t usually set the best examples.
“I’m really sorry, Daddy.”
And there it is, the stake to the heart that makes every father give in.
Nolan told Peyton she was grounded for uncertain terms that would be set by me. I told her she could work off the cost of the Jeep repairs by helping her mom with the horses. When she put enough hours in, she’d no longer be grounded. That’s the one thing Nolan and I haven’t let fall apart—our parenting. Even though she usually lets me play good cop, we agree that we won’t ever let Peyton off the hook for things.
I got let off the hook too often, and when I look back on the things that could have gotten me arrested or worse, killed, I think the odds are pretty high that I’ve wrung out every ounce of good luck due to me in life. Which explains a lot of my bad luck as of late.
I’ve been watching Nolan work with a family out in the ring for the last hour. If she didn’t have this session, I think she’d probably be napping in the living room with Sarah, who seems to have had most of the contents from the empty wine bottle sitting in the center of our kitchen island. Noles doesn’t look tipsy at all, which means she probably had less than a glass. She’s never been able to hold her wine well, zipping from buzzed and sexy right to sleepy and passed out.
Jason and Pops are invested in the late-afternoon games. I used to be just as obsessed on my off days, but who knows when I’ll have to deal with any of those other teams on the field. And if and when that time comes, they’ll be a totally different force than what they are today. It’s still too early in the season for anyone to have their rhythm. There’s a lot more important work for me to get done out here.
When Nolan moved back to Arizona, she brought the animal therapy business with her. It’s perfect for this land, actually, and the large section we’re selling off to a developer is going to fund even more buildings and staff. It’s the one thing we can talk about without arguing—her work. She has a vet on staff and two assistants. They help with one-on-one sessions guiding these kids with disabilities and their families around the ranch on horses or one of the donkeys. There’s still a lot that Nolan does herself, though. Somewhere—sometime soon—something has to give. She can’t keep burning at all ends: caring for my dad, managing Peyton’s wild side, and running this business.
