Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Max
Narrator: The air grows still as Max stands outside Betty’s cottage, desperately wanting to go back, desperately wanting to keep trying over and over again to win her back, but he knows talking is not going to do him any good, just like Bob and Dwight said.
So with a heavy heart and a mind bereft of ideas, he goes to the one place where he knows he can find help.
At least he hopes so.
“Can I come in?”
Cole steps aside, letting me into his house. I walk right into the living room, where Storee is holding Florence while Evelyn rocks in her swing.
“How are you?” she asks, sympathy all over her expression. “You can’t imagine the number of text messages I’ve received.”
I take a seat on the couch and drag my hand over my eyes. “Oh, I’m sure it’s all everyone is talking about.”
“I tried texting Betty,” Storee says. “But I haven’t heard anything from her.”
“Yeah, she’s really upset. Upset with me, with you, with the whole town.
She’s embarrassed, and I don’t blame her.
Fuck, I can’t believe I messed this up so much.
I was just over there, and she wants nothing to do with me.
And do you know what I fear?” I ask. “I fear that she’s going to leave town, that she’s going to take off, and I’m not going to have a chance at winning her back. ”
“Then why don’t you do something now?” Storee asks while Cole takes a seat as well.
“I tried,” I say. “I tried to do something—”
“No, something bigger. You say she’s embarrassed and upset with everyone in the town, so then why don’t you do something to change that?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “God, men are so obtuse.” She hands Florence over to Cole and sits on the edge of the couch.
“The grand gesture, Atlas. You have to come up with a plan, something that will show just how sorry you are while getting the town involved. That way, she can see that not only are you sorry . . . but everyone still wants her here.”
I perk up from the thought. “That’s actually . . . that’s a good idea.”
“I know,” Storee says with a smile.
“But what kind of plan?” I ask. “Hell, she didn’t even want to look at me. She was fucking crying, Storee. Crying. How am I supposed to convince her to come into town and watch us apologize?”
“You won’t be able to, but Dwight might.”
I roll my eyes and lean back in my seat, defeat pushing through me.
“Look, we have an extremely tentative truce due to Bob’s intrusion.
” Fuck, that was embarrassing. Being led away like a naughty schoolboy to the principal’s office.
In front of the whole town. “We hashed some things out, and Dwight and I apologized to each other. I told him the truth about Betty, that I love her. He told me to wait for a while and let Betty think. But I’m not sure he’ll help me win her back. ”
Storee shrugs. “Maybe, if you get your brother to apologize to him.”
I glance over at her, the idea taking root. Then again, it’s Ansel; he doesn’t necessarily care for apologizing.
Cole bounces Florence on his knee. “You need to talk to your brother.” When his gaze meets mine, I can see just how serious he is.
“That relationship has been threadbare for as long as I’ve known it.
This isn’t just about having Ansel apologize.
This is so much more than that. Think about where all this paranoia stemmed from .
. . trying to show your brothers that you could handle the farm.
There are some deep-rooted issues there that you need to take care of. ”
“Let me tell you, the moment you figure out those sibling issues, the better life will be. Take it from someone who struggled with her sister. There were some things we sat on and let stew for a long time, and now that she lives closer and we’ve been able to build a different bond, a stronger one, life just feels .
. . easier. You’re going to want that bond with your brothers, especially when you take over the farm one day. ”
I tug on my hair, thinking about that uncomfortable conversation. “So what you’re saying is that I need to fix things with my brother so I can fix things with Dwight so I can fix things with Betty?”
“Yup,” Cole says as he tosses Florence in the air and catches her. “Welcome to falling in love with someone.”
Betty
Storee: I’m so sorry, Betty. I’m sorry for my part in you getting hurt.
I think you’re amazing, and I’ve honestly enjoyed getting to know you and consider you a dear friend.
From the day we first met on the farm, I’ve wanted to be your friend.
And I am deeply sorry that we’ve hurt you. You didn’t deserve that.
I stare at the text, feeling devastated, heartbroken, and embarrassed. Tears continue to fall down my cheeks, sorrow enveloping me.
Why did he have to come here?
Why did he have to beg me to forgive him?
Plead with me?
Because once again, I felt myself believing him. I felt him being genuine. I felt myself leaning into his hold and wanting to bury myself in his chest, where he’d protect me from what was happening, but then that’s when I remembered he was the one causing all the chaos.
He was the one causing the hurt.
I swipe at my cheeks and take a deep breath. I need to get out of here. I need to flee.
Bags packed already, I carry my suitcases out to my car and pack them in the trunk.
When I turn toward the cottage to go grab Buzz, I feel this sense of loss hit me all at once, because .
. . I don’t want to leave. I love it here.
I love my cottage. I love the property. I love the town and the feel it gives me when I walk around.
I felt like I truly found a home here. For the first time since I lost my business, it felt like I had purpose again.
Correction: I loved my cottage, the town, the property, the sense of purpose.
But once again, I’m fleeing with a sense of humiliation on my back.
I can’t . . . I can’t stay here. Not now.
Even though it leaves me with an empty void in my heart, I know I need to move on.
So I go back into the cottage, making a note to have Uncle Dwight send everything back to my parents’ house, and then place Buzz in my car and buckle him up. When I reach the driver’s side, I give the cottage one more look and then turn on the ignition.
When nothing happens, I pause for a second and then turn the key, attempting to start the car again.
Nothing.
“Nooo,” I say as I try again and again and again.
On the sixth failure, I rest my head on the steering wheel and blow out a frustrated breath.
Why?
Why now?
I take that moment to pull out my phone and dial Uncle Dwight. It takes a few seconds for him to answer and then, “Betty, how are you?”
“Not good,” I say on a sob, unable to hold it back.
“I’m trying to leave, and I can’t because my car won’t start, and I just want to be out of here and go back to Fort Collins.
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to see him again.
I don’t want to see anybody. I’m just . .
. I’m sad and heartbroken and embarrassed, and I wish I never came here at all. ”
“Shhh,” Uncle Dwight says. “First things first. Your car stopped working?”
“Yep,” I say, holding back another sob.
“Okay. Well, I can get someone to come and fix it.”
“It was already supposed to be fixed. Atlas had someone fix it for me before, or maybe that was all part of the plan. Maybe it was a temporary fix so that when he went to break my heart, he could keep me here so I could live in the sorrow over and over again like a merry-go-round. Do you think that’s what the plan was?
Well, it’s working, and now I have to stay here. ”
“Listen,” he says. “Take a deep breath. I’m so sorry this happened, and I promise I’m going to help.
Your parents are on their way, so why don’t you just go back to the cottage, relax, and then we can just spend some time here at my place with your parents like we initially wanted to?
After the holidays, you can go back with them. ”
“I really don’t think I want to see them. This is all too raw.”
“Do you want me to tell them not to come?”
I give it some thought. The last thing I want is for my parents to see me in a failing position again.
Not that they would ever judge me or be mad at me, but to have to tell them that I’m heartbroken, that my life once again has fallen off course, and that I have to start all over again—I don’t think I can stomach it.
“Yeah, tell them not to come. I can’t . . . I can’t deal with it right now.”
“Okay. I’ll tell them that something came up and you’re going to be busy during the holiday.”
“Thank you.”
“I can come pick you up later. We can hang out—”
“I think I just want to be alone right now.”
“It’s almost Christmas, Betty.”
“I know,” I answer as I curl up on the couch, the tree Atlas got me lit up in the corner. “And I just think I want to be alone.”
“Do you have food? I can bring you some food.”
“No, I’m good. Seriously. I have everything I need.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. Please just . . . just let me be alone.”
“Okay,” he answers skeptically. “But if that changes, you let me know.”
Max
“To what do we owe the pleasant surprise?” Ansel says, his feet kicked up on his desk while he pulls at a cheese stick.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Me?” Ansel points to his chest. “Is this about Mom and Dad walking in on you and Betty? Because I might have told them not to say anything to you about their arrival. Didn’t know they were going to walk in on you two with her kneeling—”
“Watch your fucking mouth,” I say, coming right up to his desk.
He drops his feet to the ground and scoots back his chair. “Jesus fuck, what’s your deal?”
Calming myself because I know that I can’t come in here guns blazing, I say, “I don’t appreciate you talking about her like that.”
“Just stating facts.”
“Facts that don’t need to be public,” I say.