Chapter 7 Real-Life Snow White
Real-Life Snow White
Quinn
Once I hear Tripp’s truck kicking up gravel down the drive, I head back up to my room, trying to shake the vulnerability that our conversation left behind. Admitting that the real reason I quit—the reason I wanted to stay—was because I’d been cheated on had left me feeling raw. Exposed.
Leave it to Tripp to be annoyingly observant. He’s always had a knack for getting me to talk, even when I didn’t want to.
I was over Beau Kensington—was over him the second I saw him under someone else. But those feelings of inadequacy lingered.
How could someone who looked so good on paper be so entirely wrong for me? It had me questioning so much. About myself. About what I wanted. About what I’d settled for in my eagerness to check off the next thing on my list.
I don’t want to think about any of it anymore, so I push the thoughts of my cheating ex-boss aside and finally take the spare moment to look through the boxes that are still stacked and blocking a direct path to my bed.
Pops isn’t one to get rid of much. When Grams was alive, she’d sneak things out to the trash, only to have him bring it back in, wondering why she was throwing away a perfectly good toaster—never mind that it hadn’t worked since ‘98. He always said he could fix it but never had the time.
There could be anything in these boxes, and now’s the perfect time to figure out which boxes are junk that can be tossed while he’s not here to stop me and which are full of memories worth saving.
I start with a shoebox labeled miscellaneous. On top are crinkled receipts so faded the ink’s gone, which immediately get thrown out. The bottom is nothing but loose screws, nuts, and bolts—those get unceremoniously dumped too.
One box down, twelve to go.
The next one is full of Grams’ old clothes. For a moment, I swear I can still smell her perfume. I close my eyes against the wave of nostalgia and push it into the donation pile.
Box three is stuffed to the brim with blankets. I’m about to shove it into the donation pile when something familiar catches my eye. I pull out the muted pink fabric and run my fingers along the design embroidered on the corner—Piglet, with my name neatly stitched underneath in dark pink thread.
My baby blanket.
Grams made it for me, and I dragged it everywhere until one summer I forgot to pack it to take home.
I’d been in tears when I couldn’t find it, but eventually I’d forgotten all about it.
Seeing it now makes tears sting the backs of my eyes.
My fingers brush over the frayed edges, the material so thin and worn it’s basically falling apart, but it’s one of the few pieces of Grams I have left.
I fold it up and lay it gently on the bed.
The rest of the boxes turn up photo albums, trophies Wes and I won at the county fair, even a pair of bowling shoes. Seeing as Cottonwood Creek’s bowling alley shut down over a decade ago, it’s safe to say that these have been out of commission for a long time.
My phone rings, and I dig through the accumulating piles until I find it. Sawyer’s name flashes on the screen, and my stomach dips—afraid something’s happened to Pops.
“Hello?” I answer, breathless.
“Hey, do you have any plans for tomorrow?”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Pops is still in the hospital, and I’m jobless,” I remind her.
“Right. So, you down for a little road trip?”
“Where are we going?”
“There’s a place in North Platte with a few horses that need some TLC—and maybe a whole lot of training. Before I take them on, I want to make sure they don’t have any major health issues. Think you can play vet for me?”
“Sure,” I say, my voice sounding a little too chipper, even to me. “I’d love to help out.”
I’m eager to get out of the house. It doesn’t feel right without Pops in it, and after going through all these boxes and throwing out the junk that Pops refused to, I definitely could use some fresh air and company other than the squirrel I’m pretty sure resides in Pops’ attic.
“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at six.”
“See you then.”
I hang up and glance around at the chaos covering the floor.
Guess I’d better get my shit together if I want any shot at sleep tonight.
I peer into the box labeled Christmas Decorations and sigh heavily as I pull out a Ziploc bag full of old McDonald’s Monopoly game pieces and another full of individual ketchup packets.
For the love of everything holy, Pops.
The ‘90s country hits are drowned out by ungodly squealing, and I shrink down into the seat when Sawyer shoots daggers my way after an especially intense noise.
“Thank you for bringing him with us. I swear I’ll make it up to you.”
“I don’t think my ears will ever recover from this. It’s worse than Wes’ singing.”
That makes me snort, since my brother sang so out of tune in the shower growing up it was impossible to tell what song he was actually singing.
The pig takes up its high-pitched squall again, which makes Sawyer mumble some choice curse words under her breath.
“If that thing upsets my horses, I’m going to make it into bacon myself.”
The squealing ratchets up a notch, and the crate jostles in the back seat. “She didn’t mean it, Winston.”
Sawyer’s eyebrow flicks up with a look that tells me maybe she did mean it.
“He just doesn’t like being trapped in such a small space.”
She rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch. “You never could say no when it came to animals. You’re like a real-life Snow White. I don’t know why I thought you’d be able to go check out the horses without finding something for yourself.”
“It’s not for myself,” I argue.
“Well, it sure as hell isn’t mine.”
“I mean, I’ll take care of him while I’m here, but he can’t come back with me... for obvious reasons.”
“You mean your apartment doesn’t allow pigs?” she deadpans.
“I’d have to read the fine print to be sure,” I say, biting back a smile.
She scoffs. “You planning on gifting that banshee to Wes when you go?”
“I’ll figure something out. You saw him, Sawyer. I couldn’t just leave him there."
She mumbles something under her breath that I can’t make out over the pig’s screaming. He really was not a fan of car rides.
I cringe as I catch a whiff of the stench now emanating from the crate.
Sawyer’s lips curl and her nose wrinkles. “I swear to God if that smell doesn’t come out of my truck, you’re buying me a new one.”
“I’m sorry,” I say for the hundredth time.
Her brow furrows as we pull up the long drive of Dawson Ranch. “You’d better figure out what you’re doing with that pig fast because I’m sure Wes will have the same questions I do.”
I see what she means as I follow her gaze to where Wes and Tripp are walking toward the house from the feed barn. Sawyer parks the truck, and I hop out, glancing warily at the pig in the crate resting on the back seat. You can hear the noise even with the doors closed.
Wes’ gaze swings to Sawyer. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“Of course I didn’t,” she says, directing her gaze toward me.
His eyes roll, and he lets out an exhausted sigh. “Quinn.”
I can’t stand the big-brother look he’s giving me right now. Like I’m a child and can’t possibly understand the ramifications of my actions.
“Wes, I’ll take care of him. You won’t need to worry about a thing.”
“I feel like I’ve heard that before.”
“I’m an adult, and I’m a veterinarian. I know how to take care of a pot-bellied pig. I just need to use some fencing to make a good little home for him.”
“Are you expecting Pops to take care of the thing when you leave?” Wes questions. “The old man can barely take care of himself at this point.”
I look down at my feet. “No, I’ll figure it out.”
“Babe: Pig in the City,” Tripp says, a teasing smile in place.
“I couldn’t leave him at the rescue. He’d been there for over a year in a small pen. His eyes were so sad. He looked depressed, didn’t he, Sawyer?”
She glances heavenward. “Quinn, don’t drag me into this. I let you haul him in my truck. I told you getting a pig on a whim was a terrible idea.”
“I know how much work a pig will be, unlike the previous owners. I have no job and all the time in the world right now to work with him. It’s perfect.”
I desperately need something to fill more of my time. I was used to burning my candle at both ends. My days at the vet clinic had always been long and chaotic. All this peace and quiet while I waited for Pops to be released from the hospital was making me feel a little lost and a lot antsy.
“I’m sure you know what you’re doing, Quinnie,” Tripp says, brushing past me toward the truck. “Where do you want Wes and me to carry the crate?”
“Is there a stall open in the feed barn? He’s a little noisy to put with the horses.”
Wes glares at me, but Tripp smiles. “Sure. We can find a spot in there for now. Right, Wes?”
He just grumbles and opens the truck door, immediately stepping back and cursing at the smell. Winston has thankfully stopped his screeching. He snorts and snuffles in the crate as Wes and Tripp heave it out of the truck and waddle awkwardly toward the barn carrying it between them.
“See? He’s fitting right in already.”
Sawyer snorts and then tilts her head toward the road. “I’m gonna go get the horses settled. I’ll leave supper to you tonight since you owe me for hauling that bellowing blimp for you. The boys are bound to be hungry once they get the pig settled.”
Wes is still muttering curses, but Tripp just winks at me over the crate like hauling a squealing pig is the most natural thing in the world. Somehow, it makes my chest feel a little lighter to have one person who doesn't seem to mind the new addition.