Chapter 2
Poppy
Wanna Be Loved by The Red Clay Strays
Iturn the key and let the truck rumble to life while Owen wrestles with his seatbelt beside me and asks, “Can we get dinner from The Black Dog?”
I shut my eyes, just for a beat, because my body answers before my brain can—a burger with all the fixings.
Hot and salty fries dunked straight into Momma Mary, the cook’s ridiculously delicious cheddar sauce.
Food that feels like a warm hug and costs more than I could spend right now.
My stomach twists with equal parts hunger and guilt, because I know exactly how much is in my checking account and exactly how many bills it can’t cover right now.
I open my eyes and stare out the windshield, doing the math I never stop doing.
Groceries or gas. Heat bill or tires. Wanting one meal at a restaurant shouldn’t feel like a luxury, but it does.
And somehow that makes me want it even more.
Because we deserve better than Sully shaking us down and making me struggle.
But there’s fourteen dollars in my bank account. Fourteen doll hairs exactly. And I still need to fill up with gas tomorrow. So, dinner I thankfully thought to put in the Crock Pot at home is what it is. And I’m getting sick of Crock Pot dinners, too.
“We have white chicken chili in the Crock Pot waiting at home,” I say as cheerfully as I can manage. But dang, that burger sounds so good after this long day. I’d kill for that burger.
He groans as if I’ve personally destroyed his dreams. “Not the Crock Pot.”
Me too, buddy. Me too. Unfortunately, when he’s older, he’ll learn the Crock Pot isn’t our enemy.
“Come on,” I say, ruffling his hair and trying to get him out of his funk. “I’m starving. Let’s go home and eat a warm and yummy dinner.”
Truth is, I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Stress fills me up faster than food ever could. That, and we barely have any groceries right now. Everything goes to Owen first.
As I put the truck in reverse, my eyes land on the photo wedged into the dashboard.
Ollie and I were at Wilder Ranch in high school, years ago, both of us holding onto the reins of his old mares.
My hair was longer then and my smile brighter.
Mom was still alive, and it was a different life.
I wasn’t fighting for grocery money and working myself to the bone.
We take the quick ride home in silence, and I pull into the driveway. The porch light flickers like it’s too tired to do its one basic job.
That porch light will be someone else’s problem here soon, it sounds like, I think sadly.
I can tell that Owen is trying to pretend he’s not upset after what happened with Sully, but his face is tight, and he keeps wiping at his eyes when he thinks I’m not looking. I crouch in front of him when we get out of the truck. “Hey, look at me.”
He does, chin wobbling and eyes glassy.
“It’s okay to cry,” I tell him. “He makes me cry sometimes, too.”
“He told me once that real men don’t cry.” Owen blinks, looking at me.
“Maybe Sully doesn’t cry, but he’s also not a real man. A real man doesn’t treat their family this way.” I tilt my head and add, “Ollie cries sometimes, and he’s a real man.”
Sully will never be the man that Ollie is. And I hate that he says things like that to Owen. He’s not the one to be handing out life lessons. No one should aspire to be like Sully.
Owen nods. “I texted Ollie and told him Sully showed up.”
I smile softly. “You can text Ollie, buddy. He’s our friend.”
He nods through his tears, still fighting them back.
“It’s you and me, buddy,” I tell him, brushing a tear off his face. “I swear I’ll make this life better for us. Whatever comes our way, I’ll fix.”
He nods, and it kills me to see him trying to put on a brave front.
I hug him tight, wishing I could absorb every hurt he’s ever felt and make everything better.
Only this time, I’m not so sure that I can.
I don’t think I can save the house and keep paying on the shop, too.
It has to be one or the other, and I need the shop to work to make money.
A flash of headlights sweeps across us. I hear the familiar rumble of Ollie’s truck as it pulls in.
Of course, it’s Ollie. The cavalry shows up even when you think you don’t need it.
But we always need Ollie. He makes everything better.
He’s like the human equivalent of a golden retriever.
Happy, funny, and always making jokes. It’s hard to be in a bad mood when Ollie’s around.
He hops out of his truck, hair messy, probably from his shift at the firehouse, wearing his Bridger Falls fire jacket that makes women in this town swoon. Not me. I’m not swooning. Nope. Zero swoon. You don’t swoon over your best friend. Best friends definitely don’t swoon over each other.
“What the hell happened?” he asks the second he sees Owen’s face. His body tenses like he’s ready to take on the entire world for us.
I stand and shake my head. “I’ll fill you in later. It’s cold out here and we’re heading inside to eat. Want to join us?”
Ollie’s eyes flick to the screen door. There’s an envelope wedged into it with FORECLOSURE on the front in bright red letters, and my stomach drops. Sully wasn’t joking, even though I wish he was.
I stuff the notice into my pocket, but Ollie’s brows go tight.
I shake my head once, begging him not to bring it up in front of Owen.
Owen should never have to concern himself with bills and adult problems. His problems should be which skin he’s trying to get in Fortnite, or whether he has basketball practice, and what flavor of Gatorade he’s getting at his next practice.
That’s what I want Owen to have to worry about.
The everyday childhood things that I didn’t get to enjoy.
I’m making damn sure he has what I never had.
“I have bags in the truck,” he tells Owen gently. “Want to grab them for me?”
Owen brightens immediately and runs to the truck. He knows that means there are groceries, and it’s usually junk food I don’t buy. My groceries are ingredients for hearty meals these days. And usually Crock Pot meals he hates, but it’s food.
I turn to Ollie. “You didn’t have to bring anything.”
He shrugs with an easy smile that feels like a warm blanket on a cold day. “It’s purely selfish. You feed me, and I want to keep that happening. That means I’m going to bring groceries, so you keep feeding me. I’m like a stray cat who keeps showing up.”
I hate that it makes my throat tight. He’s saying that to make me feel better and lighten the mood. But I love feeding Owen and Ollie. I wish I had more time to create better meals for them.
“What did Sully do?” he asks quickly, watching for Owen to come in with the bags of food.
I shake my head. “I’ll fill you in later. He’s upset about it.”
“He’s a dick, Poppy,” Owen calls as he digs through the shopping bags.
“Hey.” I laugh softly. “Language. But yeah, he is a dick, buddy.”
“You got my favorite cereal?” Owen beams and does a fist pump. “Yes!”
Ollie winks. “I pay attention. You’re obsessed with two things right now. That cereal and Fortnite.”
Inside, the furnace groans and clicks on, louder than usual. I start to stress and remember I have bigger problems to worry about than the furnace right now.
“You want to play Fortnite after we eat?” Owen asks, excitedly.
“Sure,” Ollie says as his eyes reach mine, and it’s like he’s scanning me for clues to what happened.
“Go wash up,” I tell Owen as I put away the groceries. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”
I glance around Mom’s old kitchen. Faded and peeling wallpaper, a cabinet door that doesn’t quite shut, the ghost of a woman who deserved more time. And it kills me that we’re going to lose this place that holds what little memories that we do have of her.
“I’m trying, Mom,” I whisper to myself, feeling emotional at leaving it all behind and unsure of where we’re going to go.
Ollie busies himself unpacking groceries. I move around him to grab bowls, and he puts his hand on my waist as he goes around me. The gesture sends a tingle down my spine.
Get it together, I tell myself. Best friends don’t give each other the tingles.
Dinner is definitely not burgers from The Black Dog, but it’s hot and filling. I pour salt and pepper on it, warm up the biscuits I made yesterday, and set them on the table in our chipped serving bowl.
We sit at our tiny table, missing the fourth chair, with our mismatched bowls and a candle I lit specifically so dinner feels less like poverty and more like ambiance.
‘This is amazing, Poppy. We had back-to-back calls today, and it was so cold out. Good night for soup.” Ollie leans in and takes a bite.
“At least someone appreciates my Crock Pot cooking.” I grin and nudge Owen, who is standing to get his second bowl despite his complaints.
“You ready for basketball tryouts?” I ask him.
“No,” he lies.
“You’re good,” I tell him. “Really good.”
He shrugs, but there’s something there that’s bothering him. “Coach Toddy says he doesn’t know if I’ll make it.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, my spoon pausing in midair. “Of course you’ll make it. It’s a small town with not that many kids. How can Coach Toddy turn people away?”
“He’s just been saying we have to try harder, or some of us aren’t gonna make it.”
I glance over at Ollie, and his eyes give me a look that says, “we’ll talk about it later.
” We do that a lot. Ollie and I are each other’s sounding boards.
I listen to his vents about his mom and stuff he has going on at the fire station.
He listens to me vent about my dad and crappy customers. Ollie’s my person and I am his.
After dinner, we clean up together, and for a little while, life feels almost normal. But the paper crumbled in my pocket reminds me that it’s not exactly true.
“Why don’t you grab a shower and make sure you wash your hair good,” I tell my brother. “Then you can play with Ollie.”
“Okay!” he calls as he runs down the hall.
As soon as he’s out of earshot, Ollie is on me for the details of what went down.
“Okay, what’s going on?” Ollie asks, leaning in and crossing his forearms, thick muscle stretching under his sleeves, and my brain fully checks out for a second.
I pull out the notice I shoved into my pocket when we walked in, and we both read it. “We have thirty days left here.”
He shakes his head angrily. “Why hasn’t he been paying?”
“I can’t even begin to understand Sully anymore,” I fume as I load the bowls into the sink just so my hands have something to do. I turn on the water and soap up my dishes. “I’ll figure it out.”
Ollie leans his hip against the counter. “Move up to the loft with me. You can save money, and I can help you get back on your feet.”
I freeze, looking at him like he’s nuts. “We’re not living in the loft.”
“Why not?” he asks, searching my eyes like he’s challenging me to give him a valid answer.
“It’s like a frat house up there, and that’s your space, Ollie,” I object, setting the dishes in the dish drain.
“I’ve been fixing it up,” he says with a shrug. “Come on, Poppy. It’d be fun, and we practically spend every day together anyway. What would be different?”
“You need your space to have a life,” I remind him. “This isn’t your problem, it’s mine. And I have to figure it out.”
He looks at me and says, “I have a life just fine, and you don’t have to figure this out by yourself. You have me.”
You have me. If only it were that simple, but it’s not.
“I’m done, Ollie,” I tell him, feeling freakishly calm.
Ollie picks up the dishes, dries them, and says, “What are you going to do then?”
I shrug and begin rinsing out the sink. “If Owen’s losing the only home he’s ever known, then yeah, I’m done keeping the peace with Sully.”
“I agree,” Ollie says as he puts the dishes away. “Sully needs to get lost for good.”
“I’ll figure it out,” I say quietly. I always do.
“I don’t get why you won’t let me help,” he murmurs. “You know, I’m here for you guys.”
But that’s the problem. If I lean on him, he could break me, too. And Ollie’s the one person I can’t risk losing. How many times does Ollie have to save us before he thinks we’re a burden and finally leaves us? I can’t even think about how awful that would be.
Owen and Ollie play their game together while I take a much-needed hot shower and relish every last drop of water beating down on my tense shoulders.
In my room, I towel off my hair, and I open my closet door.
There it is. A poster of my silly collage of Pinterest dreams. Chickens, wildflowers, a cozy front porch, green pastures, and a tire swing.
I can see it when I close my eyes and go to sleep every night.
I’m sitting out there on that porch, having a quiet morning with my coffee in my favorite chipped mug that was my mom’s.
That’s the life I dream of when I close my eyes at night.
A life where Owen and I have plenty of groceries, and Sully doesn’t come around to take whatever he wants, whenever he wants.
I need to stop wanting this. Because wanting means hoping. And hoping means falling apart when reality hits.
We don’t get dreams. We get the Crock Pot.