Hearing the strain in Alison’s voice, hearing it tremble, makes me feel strangely protective of her.
“Sam, you were right about a lot of things. I know it’s been difficult since your father died. And I’m not just talking about between us. Clearly you’ve been struggling. The cutting—”
I look at her. Her expression is softer than I ever remember seeing it. Her shell is gone, leaving a vulnerable, uncertain woman in its place.
“I know how hard everything has been for you since your father and I got married. I just didn’t realize the toll it was taking on you. I actually didn’t care,” she says, shaking her head, like she’s disgusted. “I know you may not believe this—I don’t expect you to—but the last thing I want is to make things even harder on you . . . or harder than I already have.” She takes a deep breath and sits back against the flattened cushion. “I’ve been so lost in my own mixed-up feelings, and I haven’t dealt with things the way I should have, the way a parent should. I’m the closest thing you’ve got to that now, and I forget—”
“It’s just the way we are, I guess—complicated.”
Alison groans and rubs her hands over her face. “But it shouldn’t be complicated. It’s just me and you now, and we should’ve made things work. I should’ve made things work. I should’ve asked you how you were doing more. We should be a team.” She shakes her head. “Your father would be so angry and disappointed with me.”
I can’t look at Alison. Her words stir the darkest parts of my soul and I remember Papa’s disappointment in me. But when she’s quiet for too long, I can’t help it. I look at her to make sure she’s still there.
She’s staring down at her feet, rubbing her palms on the thighs of her pants, slowly, methodically. For the first time, she looks as lost as I sometimes feel. I suddenly want to understand.
“What did I do?” I ask, unable to help myself.
Alison stills, tilts her head, and frowns at me.
“Before, when you and Papa got married. What made you hate me so much? Did you think I didn’t like you? Was I so horrible to begin with?” I really can’t remember anymore. We’ve had our differences from the start, but I’m starting to forget why.
Alison’s face crumples, but only for a moment, and she lets out a long exhale. “Oh, Sam, I never hated you.” She’s quiet a minute, like maybe she’s trying to find the right thing to say or maybe she doesn’t know the answer either. “When I first met your father, I thought he was so handsome and chivalrous.” A grim smile pulls at her lips. “I’d just moved back here from art school in New York. I didn’t like big cities. I didn’t like the men I met there, how impersonal the whole place was. So I didn’t last long, just enough time to finish my program. And then one day, when I got back, I was reacquainted with your father—I’d met him years ago, shortly after your mother had died, I think—and I thought I’d never met a man so good.”
I smile, remembering Papa that way too.
“Before we got married, we talked a lot about our future together, about our age difference and him holding me back from my dreams by staying here at the ranch. I told him I didn’t have a country bone in my body, but none of it mattered, as long as he wanted to start a family with me. That’s all I wanted, a family.” She stares at me for a few breaths before she continues, “It wasn’t until almost a year after we were married, I found out I couldn’t have children.”
Her admission sobers me.
“You didn’t like me, and I was angry. I felt cheated and robbed . . .” She wipes a tear from her cheek. “I was so sad and heartbroken that I would never have with my child what you had with your father. Then feeling like an outsider here on top of that . . .” She shakes her head. “It was too much, and I guess it was so easy to be bitter that I forgot to try to be happy after that.”
“I had no idea,” I breathe. “How come I never knew about this?”
“Because it wasn’t your father’s story to tell, and I didn’t ever want to talk about it,” she says simply. “And then, suddenly he was gone, and I didn’t even have him anymore.” She can barely utter the words. I want to comfort her, but I don’t know how. Seeing Alison like this . . .
Tears burn the backs of my eyes, and my insides bleed with pain—for her, for Papa, for me. “I’m sorry,” I say, but it comes out as a choked sob. “I’m so, so sorry. I wish I could bring him back. I wish you could’ve had your baby.”
“It’s not your fault, Sam. The accident was a horrible thing that happened, but it wasn’t your fault.”
I shake my head, tired of hearing everyone say that.
“It’s true. I should’ve said it a long time ago. What happened isn’t your fault. Bad things happen. I was the one who answered the phone. I could’ve left to get you like you’d asked me to, but I didn’t. I sent him. I have to live with that, too.”
Tears are dripping down my cheeks, but I don’t wipe them away. “I lied,” I say.
“Teenagers lie, they make mistakes.”
I shake my head, slowly. Numb. “Not like that.”
The chair creaks. I hear a footstep, and Alison’s arms wrap around me. “Samantha,” she whispers, “what happened wasn’t your fault.” She pulls me against her, her chest heaving against my shoulder. I’m stuck, the wind, the metal, the blood, the look on Papa’s face etched in my mind for the rest of my life.
Alison’s arms tighten. “It’s not your fault,” she says so quietly I barely hear her. I wish her words were true. I nestle closer, grabbing onto her shirt, wishing I could wake up from this never-ending, miserable dream.
“People make mistakes, but the rain—the weather and the tree—that wasn’t your fault.” It’s like Mac’s saying this to me all over again, but coming from Alison, it hurts more. It doesn’t just sting, it burns. And her embrace, her faint scent of lemongrass, is somehow comforting, like I’ve been yearning for it all these years but could never quite have it.
“Shhh,” she murmurs, rocking me back and forth. “We’ll make this right.” She pulls away from me. Her face is red and swollen. “We’ll get help, Sam. We’ll make this ranch work, for him.”
Thirty-Six
Sam
Standing in the shade of an old oak, on a hill I’ve stood on a hundred times, staring down at the Reilly property, I wait. I wait to see movement through the windows, wait for answers, for the new owners to pull up the drive. I’m not sure what exactly I’m waiting for, but I just wait.
Shasta nibbles on weeds behind me, snorting in the dry heat as she searches the ground for something to curb her ever-growing appetite.
It’s been almost a week since I spoke to Reilly, and it’s becoming more and more difficult to ignore my fears, to ignore the darkness. Counseling with Alison and catching up on chores and tasks I’d fallen behind on fill up the minutes—the days—but not my mind. I notice I’m rubbing the healing cuts on my hip, and I wonder if pride and progress are enough to keep the darkness at bay.
Sitting down, I cross my legs in front of me, trying to remember why I felt it was so important to walk away from Reilly—to give him space. Lost and growing desperate, I lean back against the rough, unyielding bark of the tree and take in the house’s fresh façade—the planter boxes with seedlings already planted, the white picket fence, the For Sale sign that swings in the breeze with a big red SOLD covering it . . .
Nick told me about the offers.
I’m not sure what the glaring red sign means. Yes, there are new owners, but what has Reilly decided? Will he stay? Will he leave? Have I pushed him away entirely—forever? He’s said nothing.
I keep telling myself that I want him to be happy, to leave if that’s what he wants, but the selfish part of me wants to believe that I can make him happier—that I want more than anything to try.
Reilly’s front door creaks open, and he steps outside. He squints up at me, steps back inside, returns with a ball cap, and makes his way up the hill toward me. My heart’s thudding, my armpits are suddenly sweating, b
ut I’m both ecstatic to see him and petrified to hear what he has to say. Apologies, questions, and pleas fill my mind, but when he finally stops in front of me, I’m a mindless mute.
With a grunt, Reilly sits down beside me, staring down at the house that seems to be the only remaining tether between us.
“Hi,” I say, tasting blood as I bite the inside of my cheek.
He nods at the house. “Not too shabby, huh?”
I smile. “It looks amazing. Your dad would be proud of you.”
“Ha. No. He’d give me shit, saying it was fine the way it was, that I shouldn’t have spent the money to fix it up.”
We’re quiet another minute, me pulling anxiously at the weeds around me while Reilly just sits there, staring out at his property. “So, did you come to see the house or talk to me?” he asks lightly, and I huff a small laugh.
“I’m not quite sure. Since I hadn’t heard from you, I figured that maybe you didn’t want to talk to me yet.” I give him a sidelong glance and see that his jaw is clenched, but I can’t see his eyes hidden in the shadow of his cap. The house seems like a better topic, better than the silence. “Well,” I say, twisting my hair behind my back, “I think the house looks beautiful. The new owners are going to love it.” My voice clips at the end, but I clear it away.
Reilly nods, still not looking at me. “Thanks for all the great ideas.”
I nod once, because that’s all I can manage, and rest my head back against the trunk of the tree. I let my hands fall in my lap and shut my eyes, taking a deep breath.
“You know, Sam, I realize that you’re used to meandering the property as much as you want, but I’m not sure the new owners will take kindly to someone loitering around their house.” He finally looks at me, but I can’t meet his eyes. I can’t smile the way he’s smiling.
“What will you do now?” I whisper. “When do you have to be out of here?”
He shrugs. “I’m still working the kinks out.”
I throw my hands up, exasperated. “How can you not have a plan? You never have a plan,” I say. “Aren’t you worried where you’ll be tomorrow—next week? Don’t you even care?” It’s killing me not to know what he’s going to do.
“Not everyone needs their lives mapped out, Sam. I know it’s a control thing with you, but I’m not like that. I’m used to going with the flow. I do what needs to be done. I’m worried about now, in this moment, not five years down the road.”
“It’s so infuriating,” I say.
“Ditto,” he grumbles, and we sit in silence again. After Shasta nudges him and plucks at a few green weeds growing beside Reilly, he continues, “I get that you don’t want to make the wrong decisions, Sam—that you’re trying to be preemptive and smart—but what about the here and now?” He turns to me. “Are you even happy?”
I laugh bitterly when I can’t bring myself to say yes. “I was, being with you.” I straighten. “I’m working on it, though.” I watch him a moment, the way his brow furrows with thought and he stares at the ground like it’s not even there. “Alison came home. We’ve been talking—trying to work things out. We’re seeing a counselor in town.”
“I heard,” he says, thoughtful. “That’s good.”
“You heard, huh? What else did Nick tell you?” I know they’re best friends, but that bothers me. I should be the one telling him.
“He also told me that you’ve been sulking and crying up in your room day and night, missing me.”
I elbow him. “That’s not true.”
Reilly smirks. “You don’t miss me?”
My smile fades, and the air around us changes again—feels lighter—but I’m too scared to think optimistically. “Of course I do.”
“You could’ve come over,” he says. “I’m not the one who walked away and said we needed space.”
“I didn’t know if you wanted me to, after . . .” I’d never seen him so hurt and angry as when I left, and I hated that it was me who’d upset him so much.
“After you removed yourself from my life, again.” His tone is bitter, though I think he tries to play it off.
When I look at him, I want to make him understand, but I don’t know how. “You know it’s not like that, right? You know I want you to be happy. I want you to—”
“If you wanted me to be happy, Sam, you’d start listening to me instead of making up your own stories all the time. God,” he says, standing up, his voice strained. “You think I’m infuriating? I wish I could leave. I wish it was that easy for me to walk away, because I’m not sure I can keep up with this—with you—for the rest of my life. It’s like you’re nothing but trouble, yet I can’t stay away from you. Talk about a glutton for punishment.”
I peer up at him, trying not to smile until I actually hear him say the words. “Does that mean you are staying?” I hedge.
“Well, I didn’t sell the house, so I guess I’m stuck here.”
I jump to my feet and Shasta spooks. “What? You didn’t? You’re really staying?” It’s a whisper that contains more excitement and relief than I think is possible.
“Sam, what did I tell you?” he asks impatiently, staring at me, down into my soul. “That first night you stayed with me, we were in bed and you asked about us, about what I wanted.”
I nod, remembering every single moment of it. “You said you’d do whatever it takes to make us work,” I breathe.
“Yeah, and I guess you didn’t take me seriously, so I figured I’d show you.” He pulls a metal key ring with a single key on it from his pocket and hands it to me. “Here. This is for you.”
I frown. “What?”
Reilly flattens his palm, the key resting on it. “I’m not leaving you again, Sam. I kept the house for you, for us, if you want it.” For the first time Reilly’s voice sounds a little less certain.
“Reilly, I can’t—”
“Sam, you said yourself I need a plan. My plan is to stay here, and to do that, I need a house. You want to work the ranch, fine. You can live there, or you can live here with me, but I didn’t rebuild this place to your quite specific specifications just for me.” He nudges his open palm toward me. “Please, take it. Unless you don’t want it and then my whole carrying-you-over-the-threshold idea falls to shit, and this whole planning notion of yours proves pointless. But at least I tried.”
Throwing my arms around him, I squeeze him so tightly he groans in my ear.
“I tried to make it the way you wanted for a reason. I may not always share them, but I make plans, sometimes.” He pulls away from me and grins, his contagious heart-stopping smile squashing all my swirling thoughts and the creeping disbelief that this is actually happening.
My vision blurs, and I cover my face with my hand.
“I left you once, and it was the worst mistake of my life.” His voice is low and gruff and tight with emotion. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Sam. I’ve tried to tell you this, but—”
I bring my mouth to his and I kiss him until I can no longer breathe and have to come up for air. I tell him I love him, that I’ll never question him again. “Well, I’ll try not to,” I amend.
Reilly brushes a soft kiss on my lips and stares down at me. “We belong together, you and me. I’ve known that so long it hurts.”
The weight of a thousand regrets seems to lift as I think of us together, of the possibilities our lives hold, as we stand in each other’s arms.
“I love you,” I breathe. “Thank you.”
He reaches down and gathers me up into his arms.
I shriek and wrap my arms around his neck. “What are you doing?”
“Showing you your new house,” he says. “There was a plan, remember?”
Epilogue
Two Months Later
Sam
Though the sun’s barely up, I’ve been in the kitchen scrambling eggs and frying bacon—quietly of course, so as not to wake Reilly, if I can help it. I turn off the stove, pop his sourdough out of the toaster, plate everything
to perfection with extra bacon, then pour him a large glass of milk. I put a couple strips of bacon off to the side to sneak to Petey later and steal a strip for myself. I take a bite and admire the plated euphoria in front of me, grinning at how happy I am. I’ve missed cooking breakfast, and it feels so natural now.
I’m already used to things like this—surprising Reilly with breakfast, this house that we’re slowly but surely making our own, his little quirks, discovering my little quirks, and this different, full life—and I love it all.
I hear the bed creak in our room, and I smile. Tucking any wayward hair from my ponytail behind my ears, I collect a napkin and utensils, the food, and Reilly’s glass of milk and head carefully into the bedroom.
When I peek inside, Reilly’s awake, rubbing his face with one hand, his other flattened out on the empty space beside him.
“Did you miss me?” I simper and bat my eyelashes.
Reilly blinks a few times and smiles when his eyes land on me standing in the doorway.
“Hungry?” I ask, knowing he’s barely had time to even think about food. But that’s one thing Reilly always is, hungry. It’s nice to be able to cook for someone again, someone who practically salivates just thinking about it.
He sits up in bed and his sleepy smile widens to a grin. “Always,” he says. “And that looks absurdly delicious.” His eyes widen as I step closer. When I stop beside him, he looks up at me. “Wow, that’s a lot of food.”
I shrug. “I was hoping you’d share.” I set his glass of milk on the nightstand and then proffer him the plate. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” he breathes, and I lean down to give him a peck on the cheek. Once I’ve successfully handed the plate off to him without any spillage, I trot over to my side of the bed and crawl in beside him.
Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1) Page 31
