Chapter 43 Everett
Chapter forty-three
Everett
Our time in Phoenix is over too soon, and before I know it, I've been home—without Ruth—for a week. A week of feeling lost, of a constant ache deep in my gut. I’ve heard people talk about this feeling before, the one where they say it feels like your stomach turns solid and falls all the way out of your ass.
Until now, I think I’ve only ever felt it once.
I didn’t feel it when Grandaddy told us he was sick. But my stomach falling out of my ass pretty well describes the feeling when Mom told me he’d passed on.
And now? Now, it’s the only thing I can think of to describe this feeling.
The way my throat has dried up, the way it feels like my own tongue is choking me.
Like I’m suffocating and helpless. The way my heart pounds against my ribs and down into my belly, a deep ache that steals what’s left of my breath.
And all because of those eight words Ruth just asked me.
Do you think getting married was a mistake?
I can tell you with one hundred percent—no, one million percent—certainty that marrying Ruth Bevan was not a mistake. In fact, it might just be the best thing I’ve done in my life. Maybe it’s the only thing of worth I’ve done.
“Honey, you could never be a mistake,” I say. The words come out as a rough whisper, my tongue sticking to the inside of my mouth. I barely recognise the cracks in my voice, the way it scratches at the air around me like sandpaper.
“Not us,” she says, quietly. My stomach unclenches just a little. “But maybe—did we rush into this? Was getting married a dumb decision? Too much sun and excitement and not enough rational thought?”
The ground shifts beneath my feet, and I’m glad I’m sat on my sofa rather than standing, because I don’t think my body could take my weight anymore. I drag my feet further apart, like I’m trying to lower my centre of gravity, even though I’m sat. Even a shallow breath catches in my throat.
“What are you asking me, Ruth?”
“We live five thousand miles apart, Ev.”
“I know, baby girl.”
“How can I be your wife from five thousand miles away?”
“The same way you were my girlfriend, and the same way we were friends before that.”
I study her on my screen. She usually uses some kind of tripod to hold her phone, so we can talk hands-free, but she’s holding it today, and it shakes in her grasp as she struggles to keep herself in frame.
Her eyes are tired, bloodshot and framed with dark circles like she hasn’t slept much.
She’s paler than usual, too, in spite of our week in the Arizona sun.
“What is this about, honey? Talk to me.”
“Where are we gonna live, Ev? Your whole life is in Texas, and mine is here in London.”
“My life is wherever you are, honey,” I answer immediately.
It doesn’t require a moment of hesitation, or a second thought.
I dip my head, trying to catch her eye through the screen.
“You wanna stay in London? I’ll move. You wanna move to Des Moines?
Done. You wanna flip a coin, go all Jo Dee Messina on this shit?
I got a quarter, baby girl, we can Heads, Carolina if that’s what you want. ”
Through the tears that are spilling down Ruth’s cheeks, her lips quirk into a half-smile briefly before dropping again.
“I don’t—I’m just tired, I think. Jet lag, you know? Maybe we can talk about where to live later.”
I don’t buy it for a second. The way Ruth’s image shakes on the screen, the way holding her phone up to her face seems like such a herculean effort—I don’t like it.
Nonetheless, I hum a sound of agreement, and tell my wife I love her when she tells me she’s tired and wants to go to bed.
I hang up and drive over to the main house, making a beeline for the stables, and the entire time I’m tacking up Della for a ride, the knot sits heavy in my stomach.
The next three days are the busiest I’ve ever been.
With both ranch teams working on the newly-named Skillett Creek project, it’s been built in record time, and now we’re doing the little things.
Making sure the shower blocks are getting hot water.
Fitting out the yurts with the adorable string lighting Mom and Ms Angie chose.
Building brick pits for fires and grill stations.
The cabins will take a little longer to put together, but it’s looking like we can open up for yurt camping and maybe even some events by the end of the summer.
Ashton has already told me one of her school friends wants to get married on the ranch, and have another of their friends—a chef and Vietnamese street food specialist—bring his catering truck.
It’s all go, go, go and there’s hardly time to breathe.
For months, I’ve worked on the ranch from sunrise until sometime in the afternoon, and then I’ve helped Mom with admin work, or just called Ruth and spent whatever time I can with her.
But for the last week, I’ve been outside from sunup to sundown, levelling land, laying pipework, building tents and cabins and barns.
And we still have the rest of the ranch to care for, too.
By the time Thursday night rolls around, I’m exhausted.
It’s been a full week of fifteen hour-days in the Texas heat, and every inch of my body aches.
My hair hurts. I run the water as hot as it’ll go before I drag myself into the shower, and prop myself against the tiles as the water sluices over my hair and skin.
There are little scrapes and bruises all over my arms and legs from the physical work, the red and purple stark against the golden tan I’ve sported my whole life. That’s life on a Texas ranch for you, I guess.
I miss my wife, but I don’t have the energy to do anything about it. My body hardly manages to react when I squeeze a dollop of vanilla body wash into my palm and rub it over the streaks of dust and dirt on my skin.
I miss my wife.
I’ve been so busy this week, I’ve barely even managed to talk to her. I’ve sent her texts every day: good morning, I love you.
But as the steam clears once I turn off the spray, clarity dawns.
She hasn’t texted me back.