by Tara Sivec
I don’t know what in the hell the right thing is to do here. Something tells me I should be racing out of the house to find Clint so he can deal with this. Not because I don’t want to, but because it should be him comforting his daughter over something like this, not me. I know it’s probably what I should do, but I can’t walk away from her, not right now. Not when I know exactly how she’s feeling, and all the guilt she’s carrying inside of her.
“Let me tell you something right now, and you better listen to me. Nothing, and I mean nothing you did made her leave. Do you hear me? Sometimes, moms just leave. Sometimes, they’re just not cut out to be moms. It has absolutely nothing to do with you.”
She finally looks up at me with tears in her eyes and her chin quivering.
“Do you have a mom?” she asks softly.
“I guess I do. Somewhere. She left a long time ago.”
“She wasn’t cut out to be a mom either?” Grace prompts.
I shake my head. “No. She wasn’t. It kind of sucks.”
“Yeah. It really sucks,” Grace agrees.
“Have you talked to your dad about any of this?”
I’m pretty sure I already know the answer to this one, but I’m asking it anyway.
She quickly whips her head back and forth. “He doesn’t like to talk about her. It makes him mad.”
Son of a bitch. It’s like I’m reliving my childhood all over again.
“Well, I know we don’t know each other very well yet, but I’m pretty cool. If you ever want to talk about her, I’ll always listen, okay?”
She nods silently, and I move my hand off of hers to let her continue doodling.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Sherwood comes into the room with a basket of laundry in her hands, setting it down on the table next to us.
“Looks like you can punch out now, Brooklyn. I got it from here until Clint finishes up for dinner,” she tells me with a smile, as she starts pulling towels out of the basket and folding them.
Pushing my chair back from the table and standing up, I give Grace a pat on the head as I walk around her, letting Mrs. Sherwood know that Mia is currently in a coma on the coffee table in the living room.
“You’ll be back tomorrow, right?” Grace asks, as I pause in the doorway.
Looking back over my shoulder, I smile at her.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday, and you guys are on your own for the weekend. But I’ll be back first thing Monday. Maybe we can play some baseball or something.”
A smile lights up Grace’s face, and I silently pat myself on the back as I walk out into the hallway. As soon as I turn the corner and head toward the front door, I let out a squeak of surprise when I run right smack into Clint, leaning against the wall with his hands in the front pockets of his jeans.
Nervous excitement courses through me at being so close to him again, and I curse myself for being so pathetic.
“Hey, loser. You’re actually not going to run away from me this time, like a scared little girl?” I joke.
Clint doesn’t even crack a smile. He just turns away from me and heads toward the door.
“I’ll walk you out.”
Well, alrighty then.
As I grab my purse from the side table by the door and walk outside behind him, I don’t even bother trying not to look at his ass. It’s a thing of beauty, and I’m going to appreciate it if I want to, dammit. Maybe he’s walking me out here so he can apologize for acting so nervous around me since the Maple Inn. Of course I’ll have to insult him a little bit just because of the torture he put me through. Maybe something along the lines of, “I’m sure it’s not the first time you made a woman pass out from boredom in your presence.” Then, things can go back to normal. We can go back to picking on each other constantly without him acting all weird and trying to get away from me as fast as he can. He can go back to not being able to stand me, and I can go back to fantasizing about him in secret, knowing nothing will ever come of it. Of course I’ll try and go a little easier on him now that I understand all the shit he’s been through. I’m a giver like that.
When we get to the driver side of my dad’s truck, I lean against it while Clint starts pacing back and forth in front of me, sliding his hand through his hair as I watch him.
“Let me just make this easy on you,” I speak up after a few quiet minutes. “I accept your apology.”
He finally stops pacing and looks at me like horns have suddenly started growing out of my head.
“Why in the hell would I apologize to you?” he asks through clenched teeth.
Under normal circumstances, an angry Clint would make me very pleased. Something tells me these aren’t exactly normal circumstances, and I have no clue why he seems to be incredibly pissed at me.
“Um, maybe for acting all weird and nervous around me? I mean, I don’t know what all I did on the ride home from the bar last week, but I’m pretty sure at some point I apologized, and I even thanked you for picking us up. It’s not like we made out or anything disgusting like that,” I tell him.
Shit! We didn’t make out and I forgot, right? Right?
He laughs, but it’s definitely not one filled with humor.
“I don’t have time to deal with that bullshit right now, because it doesn’t even matter. What matters, is you giving my daughter advice about something you don’t know a fucking thing about.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat and keep my back plastered to the side of the truck when he takes a step closer to me until we’re toe-to-toe.
“Her mother left two years ago, and we haven’t heard a word from her since. She just packed up her shit and left her two girls behind, without so much as a phone call since then. Don’t you dare sit in my kitchen, trying to suck up to my kid, by pretending like you two have something in common. Your mother might not have lived here, but at least she still gave a shit. At least she still loved you, at least she still called you, and at least she still made an effort to see you. You don’t know anything about what Grace is going through, and you sure as hell aren’t going to be sticking around when the summer is over. You’ll leave, and then I’ll have to pick up the fucking pieces. You can go back to your happy little life in New York, trolling for married men, and forget all about us.”
I can’t stop the gasp that flies out of my mouth, or the tears that fall from my eyes. So much for Clint possibly not knowing about what happened in New York. And so much for me thinking there might actually be a decent human being in there somewhere that I still maybe had a thing for.
Swiping angrily at the tears on my cheeks, I step to the side and start digging through my purse for the keys.
“Good job,” I whisper, my voice cracking with emotion. “You officially win the insult war. You definitely secured the title of Biggest Fucking Jerk in the World.”
Turning my back on him when I finally find the keys, I don’t bother trying to stop the tears from falling as I fling open the door, get inside, and start up the engine.
As I back up and turn the truck around, it doesn’t even make me feel a little bit better to see a whole shit ton of regret on Clint’s face when I glance at him in the rearview mirror as I drive away.
Chapter 12
CLINT
Regretful Life
“Son of a bitch. Fuck!”
I kick the dirt at my feet with the toe of my boot, scrubbing my hands down my face as I watch the cloud of dust floating above the driveway from Brooklyn’s truck slowly disappear.
“You forgot pigheaded, dumbass, and shit for brains.”
Quickly whirling around, I find Mrs. Sherwood standing on the top step of the porch with her hands on her hips, looking like she’s two seconds away from marching over to me and smacking me upside the head.
“Don’t start,” I mutter, taking a few steps in the direction of the stables.
“You take one more step, Clint Alexander Hastings, and I will paddle your ass just like I did when you were eight and that smart mouth of yours got you i
n trouble,” she warns.
Of course she has to bring up the one and only time she ever spanked me, and of course it had to do with the woman who just peeled out of my driveway. Brooklyn kicked me in the balls and I got in trouble for it. Mrs. Sherwood always did have a soft spot for Brooklyn, and it looks like nothing has changed.
Okay, there, shit for brains. Like you haven’t always had a soft spot for her as well?
I angrily run my hand through my hair, tugging as hard as I can on it, hoping it will erase the memory of her standing in front of me with tears streaming down her cheeks.
Brooklyn Manning doesn’t cry. Ever. No matter how many times I picked on her, no matter what kind of embarrassing situations she always got herself into growing up, no matter what life threw at her, she never, ever shed a tear. She was always so fucking strong and defiant, and it was always a goddamn turn-on to see her all fired up and pissed off. There shouldn’t be a sharp pain in my chest that I’m itching to rub away just because I was the one to break her. I thought she’d give it right back to me. I thought she’d call me every name she could think of, and possibly make up a few creative ones. I thought she’d stomp her foot and pitch the biggest fit known to man. I didn’t know how to handle the fact that I was pissed at what I overheard in the kitchen, and when she turned around and looked at me, so hurt and defeated, I wanted to immediately take back every word I said and pull her into my arms.
“What I don’t understand, and what I’m gonna need you to explain to me, is how you could have said such awful and hurtful things to a woman you’ve been half in love with since the day you met her,” Mrs. Sherwood continues, making my head slowly turn back to look at her, my eyes wide and my mouth gaping open.
“Oh, please. I’m old, but I ain’t dead. My eyes work perfectly fine, thank you very much,” she informs me. “You been chasing that girl around since the day she stood up to you and kicked you in the nuts. You came back to this farm, working your ass off to make it good, pretending like you were happy to be here. Yet the first time I saw you smile since Mia was born was the day you walked into the kitchen and saw her standing there.”
Jesus. Leave it to Mrs. Sherwood to make me feel like an even bigger idiot than I already do.
I was one of the many guys in this town who had a thing for Brooklyn back in the day. She was fucking gorgeous with her dark hair, pale blue eyes, killer body, and her refusal to ever back down from any challenge. Even after all these years, every single male under the age of sixty has stopped me in town since she’s been back, asking how she is, if she’s dating anyone, and if I think they’d have a shot with her now.
I was a coward back when we were teenagers. I was a computer nerd who only had friends because my sister was popular, and because I was “friends” with an equally popular Brooklyn. I knew she was out of my league from the moment I met her, and that feeling never went away. She was destined for bigger and better things than this small town, and I knew I’d never have anything to offer her to make her stay.
Sure, I went off to California and did my own thing for a while, but I hated every minute of it. I hated how fake everyone was. I hated how everything moved so fast, and people were always trying to one-up each other with better cars, bigger houses, and who could make more money. I wasn’t forced to come back here because my dad got sick. I came back here, because I couldn’t breathe in the big city. I needed wide-open spaces, familiar faces, and peace and quiet.
I thought I was doing fine. I thought I was handling everything okay. Running the farm, raising the girls on my own, and doing my best to make sure they forgot about their worthless mother and moved on with their lives, doing whatever I could to try and be happy. And then Brooklyn walked back into my life, and it felt like I’d just woken up from a coma. Everything was louder, more colorful, brighter, newer, and more exciting. I couldn’t wait to wake up every day just to catch a glimpse of her. I couldn’t wait to walk into the house and see what kind of mess she’d gotten into with Mia, my little troublemaker. I counted down the seconds until I finished up with work in the afternoons so I could take my lunch break, race inside, and fire an insult at her, just to watch her eyes sparkle and her brain work overtime to lob one right back at me. She made me feel alive again for the first time in years.
And then I walked into the house a little bit ago and overheard her talking with Grace. I went through such a wide range of emotions I thought my head would implode.
Sadness—that my girl was so tied up about her mother and never said anything to me about it, and I’d been too much of an idiot to notice.
Jealousy—that she opened up to Brooklyn instead of me.
Hurt—that all of my faults where my daughters were concerned, and how much I’d been neglecting them, were being thrown right in my face.
And white hot rage—when Brooklyn tried to make it sound like they had everything in common, making promises to her I know she wouldn’t be able to keep. Just like twelve years ago, when I lost my head and almost kissed her, the reality that she wouldn’t be sticking around here hit me like a two-by-four across the face. White Timber isn’t her home anymore. It’s just a temporary stop. Soon enough, she’ll be leaving us behind, taking her color and brightness and happiness right along with her.
“It doesn’t matter. She overstepped, plain and simple,” I tell Mrs. Sherwood, completely avoiding the whole “half in love with her” comment.
“Boy, your mother would be turning over in her grave if she heard the bullshit coming out of your mouth right now,” she says with a shake of her head.
“Um, Mom’s not dead. She’s living it up in Florida in a condo with Dad. I just talked to her yesterday. They joined a bowling league.”
“Don’t sass me! If she heard the things you yelled at Brooklyn, she’d keel over, and then start flailing around six feet under.”
She steps down off the porch, walks right up to me, and pokes her finger in my chest.
“Listen up, buddy boy. You better pull your head out of your ass, and you better pull it out of there fast. You don’t know everything you think you do about that girl. She put on a brave face for a lot of years, but I know for a fact she has everything in common with your girls. Every. Thing. Do you honestly think she would have said those things to Grace if she didn’t know exactly what that little girl was going through? If she didn’t know about the pain and the guilt and the torture of being left behind and never thought of again? Of having to live with thinking for all these years that she’s easy to leave and unlovable?” she asks, making my stomach roll with nausea.
It can’t be true; there’s no way. I listened to Brooklyn brag about her mother and their relationship for years. She’d tell anyone who asked, and even those who didn’t, how close they were and how their bond was even stronger after she left town.
Son of a bitch. Son of a mother fucking bitch!
She talked about that woman incessantly, and there was always something a little forced about it, but I was too busy fantasizing about getting in her pants and didn’t pay that close of attention. No one talks about how amazing their mother is that much, especially a teenage girl. How in the fuck didn’t I see that?
“Ahhh, I see the lightbulb is finally turning on,” Mrs. Sherwood muses, patting me on the arm.
“I’m going to assume you know this inside information because of all the extra time you’ve been spending with Mr. Manning?”
It’s Mrs. Sherwood’s turn to look at me with wide eyes and her mouth dropped open in shock.
“I ain’t dead yet. And my eyes work perfectly fine.” I smirk, repeating the words she said to me a little bit ago.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She huffs, crossing her arms in front of her.
“Oh, really? Like how you always seem to make too much for dinner, even though you’ve been cooking for the same number of people for years, and those leftovers always somehow make their way over to Mr. Manning’s house? And I’m guessing you’re just being
a good neighbor when you stop over there a few times a week to clean his house. I have to say, it was awfully suspicious that on the day he was being released from the hospital, when he called a few days ahead of time to see if you could pick him up, I overheard you telling him you had to work. When you’d already requested that day off,” I muse, tapping my finger against my chin. “Awfully suspicious.”
“You can just wipe that smirk right off your face,” she scolds. “Allen Manning and I are friends. Friends do nice things for each other. It’s not that out of the ordinary for a friend to strongly suggest that he should call his only daughter and ask her to come home. And besides, this isn’t about me. This is about you. You’ve got some groveling to do, and it damn well better be good.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? She’s still not sticking around. She still has a life in New York to go back to,” I remind her.
“Says who? I haven’t heard her mention New York since she got here. Not once. And according to her father, she hasn’t said diddly about it to him either. I’m thinking all she needs is a little incentive to stay. I know for a fact that there’s a little girl sitting at the table inside, who would really enjoy some one-on-one time with her daddy and help him come up with a plan.”
As soon as those words leave her mouth, the front screen door opens and slams shut, and Grace walks out onto the porch, holding Mia’s hand.
Jesus, I’m such an asshole. In more ways than one.
I wanted to raise my girls here in White Timber, because I wanted them to have the best life I could possibly give them. Even though I was more interested in electronics than farm life when I was younger, I could never deny this was the best place to grow up. Busting my ass to make sure they had a legacy in this farm for when they’re older, a roof over their heads they could be proud of, and anything their hearts desired didn’t do jack shit toward giving them a good life. My undivided attention, making sure they know I’ll always be here for them, and helping them make happy memories that will last a lifetime is all they really need, and I’ve fucking failed at that.
