by Lilly Wilde
The dark-haired boy appears at a loss for words as Branch reaches for the chair.
I wince as I go to put on my jacket and Branch rushes over to help me. He then grabs my bag and slings it across his back.
“I guess I’m ready.”
“Your chariot awaits,” Branch says, tipping his head toward the chair.
I shake my head and slowly lower myself into the seat, then Branch wheels me out of the room, down the hall and to the elevators. We eventually roll through the front doors of the hospital. And at the foot of the walkway is a truck I don’t recognize. Once we’re settled inside, I ask, “Is this Jimmy’s?”
“Mine.”
“I’ve never seen you in this before. Why haven’t you ever driven it?”
“It’s new.”
“You bought it? Why? Aren’t you leaving soon?”
“Plans changed.”
I look at him, confused by his response and about to ask for more details but he looks away. Does this mean he’s staying in Blue Ridge a while longer? The thought alone emits a feeling of happiness I force myself to suppress.
Hmm. If he is staying…why? The garage? Nah, that wouldn’t keep him here. So maybe it’s his family. Maybe he’s finally taken Jimmy’s advice and is placing the past where it belongs. Maybe he’s ready to learn from it instead of trying to outrun it. That’s my guess anyways. He doesn’t seem open to talking about it, so I don’t ask. I look in the opposite direction and stare out the window as we head down Hospital Road.
“Loretta had the baby,” he says.
“Really?” I ask, suddenly excited. “How are they?”
“They’re fine.”
“So…”
He looks over at me, his brow arched.
“Was it a boy?”
“Yep. As a matter of fact it was.”
“That’s great. I’m so happy for her.” At least someone has grasped a fraction of joy in the midst of the hysteria of fucked up-ness. So much has happened in the last few weeks that my head is still spinning—sex with Branch, catching him with Skye, the fight with Ethan, Ethan taking CeeCee, Jimmy’s death, Ethan kicking my ass, a week in ICU, another week because I wasn’t healing as expected, and Branch rescuing me—not once—but twice.
He’s visited me at the hospital every day—bringing clothes, fuzzy slippers, a Kindle full of art books, a couple of framed pictures of CeeCee and him at the park with Loretta’s girls, and some of the best food I’ve ever eaten. His mama made most of it but he pitched in with a few of the meals. He even spent the night at the hospital when I was having especially hard days. If I still believed in knights in shining armor, I’d swear Branch polished his just for me. How can he not see that he’s the exact opposite of the bad guy he’s made himself out to be? Because he’s proven it to me over and over.
When I notice we aren’t going to Dad’s I turn toward him. “Where are you taking me?”
“It’s a surprise.”
My frame becomes rigid. “I don’t like surprises. You know that.”
“Too bad.”
“I’m serious, Branch. I don’t like them. I never have. So take me home. I need to see my daughter.”
He half smiles, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Humor me, okay?”
Humor him? What the hell? I want to go home. Irritated by his ploy, I shake my head and try to figure out what he’s up to. Twenty minutes or so later, we turn into one of the nicer subdivisions a few miles outside the edge of town.
“Whose place is this?” I ask, when he pulls to a stop in a driveway.
He shifts the gear to park and presses the button that turns off the ignition. “What if I say it’s yours?”
I look over at him, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, actually it is yours. I closed on it a couple of days ago.”
My mouth drops open. “You did what?”
“It’s a gift.”
“Gift? Normal folks don’t just go around buying houses as gifts.”
His self-assured smile disappears and his expression turns serious. “There’s nothing normal about any of this, Ragan. You’ve been through a lot. More than any person should in one lifetime. More than anyone should ever. You need a break. And I’m giving it to you.”
“I’m not some type of project or charity case.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Please take me to my Dad’s.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s where I live.”
“But you don’t have to and I know you don’t want to. Remember the day on the steps at my place? You told me about your mom, your dad, your stepmom, and the house you grew up in, and how difficult it was for you to be there.”
“Yeah, so?”
“You don’t have to be there anymore.”
“I don’t like where I live, so you just go out and buy me a house? That’s crazy.”
“What’s crazy is that you’re staying somewhere that’s holding you hostage to a past you want no part of.”
“That’s my problem. And I’ll figure it out.”
“What about Cecelia?”
“What about her?” I ask.
“You said you didn’t want her there. And I don’t want her there either. It’s not good for either of you.”
I fall quiet and reluctantly glance back at the house. It’s a really nice place. I mean really nice. And the lawn is immaculate—just like I always imagined for my own home one day. There’s even a tire swing hanging from the large Oak tree in the front yard.
“Just come inside and take a look and if you absolutely hate it, I’ll call the realtor and tell her to put it back on the market.”
Branch gets out of the truck and gestures for me to follow suit but my stubbornness won’t allow me to move. He lets out a sigh and strides to the passenger side and opens the door. “Stop being ridiculous and get out.”
I cross my arms over my chest and look in the opposite direction. Moments later, his hands are sliding beneath my thighs lifting me from the seat.
“Goddamnit, Ragan.”
He carries me with more ease than I would have expected. But then again, the jeans that barely sit at my waist indicate I have dropped even more pounds.
“I don’t know why you have to make everything so fucking difficult,” he grumbles.
“And I don’t get why you’re doing this. Put me down.”
“I just told you why.”
“But it can’t be just that.”
“Why? Because you don’t deserve some good luck every once in a while?”
He places me on my feet when we’re near the front door. I look up at him for more of an answer, his blue eyes gleaming back at me.
“And maybe it’s a little more than just that,” he says and pulls a key from his pocket. “I took something from you a long time ago. So this is my way of giving something back.”
My brows scrunch. “Is this because of what happened between us in high school?”
“Yeah. But mostly because I don’t think you enjoy going home to a place that’s full of bad shit. And I don’t want that for you,” he says, looking down at me, his gaze tender. “If you want to start a new life, you have to wake up in a new life, not in the same one that gave you nightmares.”
That much is true. I hate that fucking place but I can’t accept this. “I don’t accept handouts.”
“Good, because I don’t give ’em.” His hand is at the small of my back, urging me inside. “I expect you to pay rent on time every month.”
If I thought the outside of the house was nice, I’m positively stunned now that I take in the interior. “You know I can’t afford this, right?”
“Take a look at your expenses and let me know what fits your budget and that’s what you’ll pay me.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I said it. Didn’t I?”
“I don’t know,” I say, scanning the space a second time. “This just doesn’t feel right.”
>
“If it makes you feel better, we’ll draw up a rental agreement. That way it’s a run-of-the-mill business transaction.”
I step further into the house and look around. It’s completely furnished, and I have to admit I love everything I’ve seen so far. There’s nothing “run-of-the-mill” about any of this.
“There is one catch.”
I slowly turn to face him. “I knew it. What?”
“No more of the attitude when I come to Jim Bob’s for lunch.”
“Seriously?”
“Yup.”
“That’s your stipulation?” I ask.
“Too challenging for you?”
“No, I can be nice to people. Especially if they’re nice to me. Which you never were in the beginning, but I suppose I can lose the attitude. I mean, I kinda have to now. Can’t have my landlord on the outs with me.”
He flashes a grin. “So you’ll accept it? You’ll live here?”
“Yes. I’d have to be crazy to refuse this. But I have a question.”
“Sure. What is it?”
“I really don’t get why you just don’t eat someplace else. Why keep coming to Jim Bob’s? The food ain’t that great.”
His gaze skates over my face, settling on my eyes. “Maybe I keep coming for you.”
Huh. The doorbell rings before I can figure out if he means what I think he means.
“That’s probably your folks bringing Cecelia by. I’ll get out of your hair and let you get settled.”
“You’re leaving?” I ask, surprised by the disappointment in my tone.
“Yeah, but I’ll see you at the diner soon. And remember. Lose the attitude.”
A few days later, I’m standing in the bathroom looking in the mirror. Half my face is swollen from the stitches in my cheek. Most of the other bruises are gone. The ones that aren’t can be covered with makeup. I’m a pro at that—been covering bruises since I was seven years old.
With CeeCee having gone to church with Aunt Sophie, I wander around the house, still in awe that I live here. That it’s mine. Well, sort of anyway. Everything is so nice. Nothing I’d be able to repay Branch for anytime soon.
I flip on the TV as my phone sounds notifying me of a text.
Branch: Do you still not like surprises? Because I have one more.
Ragan: What have you done now?
Branch: I’ll tell you in a couple of days. I need to give you time to stop being pissy about the first one.
I stare at his message and smile. Me? Ragan Prescott. Friends with Branch McGuire. It still doesn’t quite register. And I never did reach a conclusion on what he meant by coming to the diner for me? No way was that anything more than another one of his weird innuendos. Maybe, just maybe I can come to accept a friendship with the sexy-as-sin football star I’d secretly obsessed over in high school, but no way could it ever be more than that. Like vodka and decisions, we’re simply a bad mix. I’m the single mother trying to get her life on track and he’s the record-breaking NFL player trying to parlay his success.
RAGAN PRESCOTT.
She continues to surprise me.
There she was…being released from the hospital, her arm in a sling and her face battered and bruised, yet she was still smiling at the good fortune of someone else. She was genuinely happy for Loretta. I saw it in her eyes. I saw it in her smile, and I heard it in her voice.
No fucking way does she deserve the rotten hand she’s been dealt. It pisses me off—even more than I already am—to know that Ethan fucker is still breathing.
I call Connie and tell her to set up a meeting with my attorney. Ethan may have had the upper hand in the past, but I’ll be damned if that ever happens again. He’s seen his last days of hoarding any kind of power over Ragan. Of that I’ll make sure.
I disconnect the call, draft the email and hit Send, already knowing Andrés is going to lose his shit when he sees the images. Before I can even return the phone to my pocket, it’s ringing.
“That was quick as fuck.”
“I want to meet her,” he says in a rush.
I pause, unsure as to how that will go over.
“Is that going to be a problem?” he asks.
“No. But I didn’t expect you’d move so fast.”
“And I didn’t expect you to have an eye for this kind of talent. She’s a natural.”
“I don’t know anything about spotting artistic talent. I just know what I like. And some of it resembles what you picked out for Mama.”
“She’s definitely a talent I’ve not seen,” Andrés says, the excitement in his voice ringing through the phone. “And based on those few drawings alone, I can tell you right now, her work will appeal to a diverse range of art connoisseurs. She’s capable of generating sales in a variety of venues. And I want her before someone else scoops her up.”
“Want her…as in buying a few of her pieces?”
“No, as in being the only gallery that showcases her work. I want her here in New York.”
I need time to prepare her for something like this. But will the offer still be on the table if she drags her heels? “When can you be here?”
“For her? In a couple of days. Just tell me the time and place.”
“How about I check to see when she’s free, then text the meeting details?”
After hanging up with Andrés, I try to figure a way to make this meeting happen, knowing it won’t be an easy sell.
“Is this the surprise you were referring to? Please say it isn’t. Please say this guy isn’t coming here to meet me.”
“Ragan, what’s the big deal?” I ask, knowing this is a huge fucking deal. “Just sit and talk to the guy. Can’t hurt to hear him out.”
“I can’t do this. I won’t. Now stop trying to push me to do things that aren’t in me to do.”
I’ve argued with Ragan for the better part of an hour now, and I’m starting to lose my patience. “If it’s not in you, then how the fuck did you paint these?” I walk over and lift one of the drawings from the corner. “Do you think just anyone can do this? I sure as hell can’t. Andrés says you have a natural talent, like none he’s ever seen. Or do you think he’s lying too?”
She storms out of the room, but with no intention of letting this go, I follow her.
“I still can’t believe you did this behind my back. I knew you and Dad were up to something. He’s never taken an interest in anything about me.”
“He’s way past due, don’t you think? Maybe he was finally trying to help.”
Ragan spins around to face me, outraged by my claim. “Help? Are you kidding me? He doesn’t give a damn. He never has. So, tell me, when you and he were having these secret meetings, did he happen to mention that he once tossed my art out of the house like it was garbage?”
“He did what?” I ask, my eyes moving over her in confusion.
“Never mind. I’m not in the mood for a stroll down memory lane.”
“You don’t want to talk about it, fine. But you need to meet with this guy.”
“I don’t need to do anything, Branch. I’m tired of being pushed around, okay? People have been pushing me into things with force or with subtle ways of mind control for years and I’m not letting it happen anymore. You need to go.”
“I’m not moving. Not until you tell me you’re going to do this.”
“Well, you’re going to have a long wait. I’m not doing it. I can’t.”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because I can’t afford to get caught up in what-if’s. I’ve done that one time too many, and look where it’s gotten me. And now, I have a child to think about, not these pie-in-the-sky dreams. Everyone can’t be like you.”
The mere thought of her diminishing herself because of that loser ex makes me see red, and a flare of anger touches my chest. “This is your ex talking. Isn’t it? Whatever load of bull he dumped on you, don’t buy into that shit. You deserve so much better than what you’ve had to deal with. You know that…don’t
you? What happened to that strong-willed girl that doesn’t take any crap from me?”
“Even the strongest of winds can turn and even the strongest of glass can shatter. And sometimes when enough becomes enough, that’s exactly what happens.”
“Why the defeatist attitude, Ragan? I expect that from some people, but not you. Why are you so convinced your dreams can’t come true?”
“Because I tried! Okay. I tried!”
She goes to the closet and pulls out two canvas pieces and tosses them at me.
“Now tell me if that looks like talent to you,” she demands. “Yesterday when you told me about all of this, I’ll admit, for a few minutes, I was excited. I allowed myself to dream. So I pulled out my supplies and this is what came of it.”
I pick up the drawings, instantly determining they pay no resemblance to what I’ve seen of her work, not even to that I’d witnessed her scribbling in passing at the diner.
“Are you happy now?” she asks.
I glance up from the paintings and see her eyes glistening with tears. “Ragan, you’ve let that fucking guy get in your head. This is what he wants—for you to give up on yourself. Don’t let him win. You’re better than this.”
She shakes her head. “No. I’m not. I thought I was. I really did. But this is as good as it’s gonna get for me, Branch. I have to accept that. And so do you. Stop filling my head with these pipe dreams of a life that’s meant for someone else. Now please, go.”
“You know, I never pegged you for a quitter. That sure is a lot for Cecelia to live up to.”
Her head flicks around. “How dare you say that shit to me! Do you have any idea what I’ve had to survive? Of the number of times I thought I was going to die because the person who was supposed to love me beat the living shit out of me until she was too fucking tired to lift her arm or her foot? Of knowing I have a mother out there who never gave a damn about me, who chose drugs over me?”
Enraged by my accusation, both her voice and her temper escalate with each word.
“What about the number of self-talks I give myself on a daily basis just so I can keep putting one foot in front of the other? Do you know about that? Do you? Don’t bother answering because I know you don’t. Unlike you, I don’t get to walk off into some high-profile fantasy life and just come back here and slum it up when the mood strikes. I’m here every day. Every fucking day, surrounded by shit that hits me with every memory I try to forget. With everything I try not to expose my daughter to. So don’t you fucking dare stand here and call me a fucking quitter.”
