Chapter 8 Winnie the Pig
Winnie the Pig
Tripp
Istation my hands on my hips and eye the noisy gray swine who is currently snuffling around in the fresh hay I just threw into the stall.
“He’s kind of cute.”
Wes gives me a look that says he’s questioning my sanity.
I’d like to say I’m surprised Quinn brought home a rescue animal when all she was supposed to do was check out the horses for Sawyer, but I’m not in the least. How Sawyer and Wes didn’t see this coming is beyond me.
“He’d be cuter if he weren’t in my barn,” Wes grumbles.
“What are you so worried about? You know Quinn will take care of him. He won’t be your responsibility.”
“Until she goes back to the city...”
I groan. “You worry too much. I'm sure she'll find a good home for Pork Chop here.”
“I don’t think Quinn is gonna agree to that name.”
“Probably not, but now I’m hungry. Come on.”
We trek back up to the house, and I smile when I see my sister’s Jeep parked out front. The entire crew is here—except for Pops.
That thought is a dose of reality that hits like a splash of cold water. I miss the old man, and while I know he’s in good hands, it’s hard to know he won’t be at the table with the rest of us tonight.
I toe off my boots and hang my hat on the hook by the door when we enter the old farmhouse. My fingers run through my hair a few times as the scent of garlic, tomatoes, and something buttery drifts in from the kitchen.
Wes thuds up the stairs to wash off while I’m stuck smelling like my normal mixture of sweat, hay, and manure. Quinn is in the kitchen, stirring something in the pan, in cotton shorts and a blousy shirt with little flowers printed all over it.
“It smells good, Quinnie,” I say, trying not to let my eyes linger too long on her bare legs since Allie’s watching me from where she’s chopping up vegetables at the counter.
Quinn peers over her shoulder at me with a small smile. “It’s nothing fancy, but it used to be your favorite.”
I peek at the red sauce and spaghetti sitting on the stove and grin like an idiot. “It’s still my favorite.”
“Long day?” Allie asks, nose wrinkling at the dirt caked on my jeans as I move to the sink to clean up a bit.
“Always, but the calves we had to tag today had some real bitches for mothers.”
Quinn smirks at me. “Aw, such good mamas. They don’t want you hurting their babies.”
“God forbid we want to make sure they’re all traceable and get the vaccines they need.”
“Well, she doesn’t know that, does she?”
“You’re supposed to be on my side here,” I mutter. “I was nearly trampled a few times.”
“Aw, poor baby,” Quinn coos, smooshing my cheeks together just as Allie snorts behind us.
“That’s better,” I mumble through squished lips.
She lets go to get back to stirring, and I hate how fast I miss the feel of her hands on me—even if it was just a teasing touch. It was too fleeting—the momentary warmth fading too quickly, making me want to search it out again.
She catches me staring at her and gives me a little smile. “Thanks for helping get Winston all settled.”
“You named the pig Winston?” I blink, then hit her with a teasing grin. “You gonna call him Winnie the Pig?”
She shrugs, cheeks going a little pink. “Is it stupid?”
“Tripp, stop teasing her,” Allie calls out. “I like the name.”
“Nah, Winston is perfect,” I agree. “Solid. Dignified. Perfect for a pig.”
The hinges of the screen door squeak open, and a moment later Sawyer marches into the kitchen. “Is dinner ready yet? I’m starved.”
“Well, hello to you too,” Allie mumbles.
Sawyer nudges Allie to the side with her hip and steals a cucumber from the cutting board. “You know how I get when I’m hungry,” she says.
“Prickly as a porcupine,” Wes says as he tromps back down the stairs.
She narrows her eyes at him, but he quiets whatever retort she has waiting with a quick press of his lips to hers. I catch Quinn eyeing them, a wistful look crossing her features before she turns back to the stove.
“Dinner’s ready,” she announces.
“Just in time,” I mutter.
“I’m gonna go check on Winston once we finish supper,” Quinn says, placing a bowl of spaghetti in the center of the small table.
Allie brings the basket of garlic bread, and I snag three slices before she’s even put it down, tearing into one with the intensity of a bear eating its first fish after a long winter.
Wes looks at me as if I’ve somehow personally offended him. “You’re eating like a heathen. Save some for the rest of us.”
“You snooze, you lose,” I say around a mouthful.
“How’s Pops doing?” Allie asks, ignoring the way Wes reaches around her for a slice.
“They moved him to the nursing facility this morning,” Wes says. “Sounds like he’s been giving them all a run for their money.”
Sawyer’s eyes roll. “That man.”
Quinn sighs. “I’ll go tomorrow and talk some sense into him again.”
“Good luck with that,” Wes deadpans.
“When does he get to be your problem full time?” I ask, forking a meatball that’s large enough to give me heartburn for a week into my mouth.
“Depends on how long he takes to do the strengthening exercises without telling his nurses to go to hell.”
“He’s becoming as surly as Sawyer in his old age,” I mutter.
Wes kicks my chair.
“Hey,” Sawyer says, mouth still full of garlic bread. “Watch it.”
Quinn tries to hide her smile behind another bite of spaghetti, but Allie pats Sawyer’s head patronizingly. “We love that you’re as vicious as a rabid raccoon, babe. Never change.”
Sawyer scoffs. “As if I would ever change.”
“I’d change for garlic bread,” I say, reaching for the last piece—but Wes’ hand is already hovering above it. We both freeze.
His eyes narrow. “You already had three.”
“I’m a growing boy,” I counter.
Quinn sighs, but amusement flickers in her gaze. “Why don’t you split it?”
“It’s garlic bread,” we say in unison.
Wes lunges, and I swipe the slice from his hand, knocking the ladle from the saucepan in the process. The garlic bread flies toward Sawyer, and the empty basket skitters across the table.
Allie shrieks, staring down at the red splotches covering her blouse. “I’ve been shot!”
Sawyer snatches the last slice of garlic bread from where it landed in front of her. “Y’all don’t deserve this after that ridiculous display.” She takes a triumphant bite.
“This was my favorite shirt,” Allie gripes, glaring at me.
“Wes started it,” I mutter, sitting back in my chair, trying not to let my grin show.
“You’re the one that knocked over the ladle,” Wes argues.
Sawyer quietly polishes off the last bite of garlic bread. “The pig probably has better manners than you two.”
Quinn laughs, the sound soft and tinged with nostalgia. For a second it feels like it did when we were all back in high school—warm, loud, messy.
“You guys haven’t changed at all.”
The laughter lingers even after the noise fades, but eventually, the evening winds down. Wes and Sawyer retreat to their place, and Allie leaves not long after the dishes are done, still mourning the loss of her favorite shirt, which leaves me and Quinn alone in the kitchen.
She hits me with a smile that makes it hard to breathe and asks, “Want to come out to the barn with me to check on Winston?”
“Sure,” I say, despite knowing I desperately need a shower. I’ve always been terrible at saying no to Quinn.
She grabs the leftover vegetables from dinner, and I follow her outside.
The gray pig gives a noisy squeal as soon as he realizes Quinn brought him a treat. She tosses some cucumber slices and carrots into the bowl and looks at him adoringly as he lets out happy grunts, tail wagging.
“He’s cute, right?” she asks, peeking at me out of the corner of her eye.
I lean against the post and watch him knock over the bowl, searching for more and emitting a loud screech when he finds none.
“Adorable,” I agree with a wince.
She laughs. “Yeah, well, maybe he’s my midlife crisis.”
I huff. “You’re too young for a midlife crisis, Quinnie. And finding animals to take care of is hardly a new pastime for you.”
“True.” Quinn heaves a heavy sigh as she scratches Winston behind the ears. “I always knew what I wanted to do, but after working so hard to get where I wanted to be... I don’t know... I thought it would feel sweeter. Maybe it would have if I hadn’t royally messed up my personal life.”
My lips tug down in a frown. “He cheated on you, Quinn. You didn’t mess anything up. He did.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, maybe.”
I shake my head at her. “Not maybe. Definitely. He’s an idiot for not seeing what he had right in front of him.”
The urge to find the guy and throttle him hits me all over again. Quinn deserves better than that douchebag.
She gets a far-off look in her eyes and then she smiles again. “Remember that time you told me boys were stupid, and I should stop kissing them?”
I chuckle, remembering the first time I climbed in her window. “Yeah, I do.”
She gnaws on her lip, and I’m powerless against the memory—her cheeks blotchy from tears and heartbroken over some other dumb boy who didn’t deserve her.
Eighteen Years Ago
My heart beats against my sternum in a rapid rhythm.
I thought Pops had seen me up in the tree for sure.
But if he had, I’d be a dead man by now.
He was bound to get the wrong impression if he saw me sneaking into Quinn’s window in the middle of the night—but I could tell something was wrong with her earlier, and she hadn’t wanted to talk about it with Wes around.
“What are you doing?” she hisses, easing the window open. “Pops is still up.”
“I noticed,” I say as I climb through the second-floor window.
Reaching Quinn's room involves scaling the tree growing beside the house, shuffling across the third limb to reach the porch roof, and carefully making my way to her corner window. Luckily, I’ve got decent balance.
Otherwise, I’d probably have ended up flat on my back with the wind knocked out of me… or worse.
“What are you doing here, Tripp?”
She’s wearing her favorite pajamas—a set I’ve seen her in more than once. A yellow bear is printed across the top, elbow-deep in a honey jar, with matching shorts. They’re ridiculous. And adorable. And quintessentially Quinn.
I smirk. “Nice PJs, Quinnie the Pooh.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, suddenly looking self-conscious. At fourteen, she’s now eye-level with me but significantly scrawnier. She reminds me more of Bambi than the chubby little bear I’ve nicknamed her for—all long limbs and awkward elegance.
I toss a pack of Peanut Butter M&M’s onto her bed. I know they’re her favorite. “You seemed upset on the drive back from the fair.”
She avoids my gaze but immediately snatches up the candy from the bed. “I’m fine.”
“You were fine on the way there,” I say gently. “But on the way back? You looked like you’d been crying.”
“It’s no big deal,” she mumbles. “Boys are just stupid.” Her voice cracks, and I step towards her on instinct, wrapping an arm around her.
She curls into me immediately, hiding her face in the crook of my shoulder. I give her a gentle squeeze. “I’d say I’m offended, but I’ve done some pretty stupid shit, so that’s probably fair.”
She lets out a watery laugh as a stray tear dampens my shoulder.
“Come on, Quinnie. Tell me what happened.”
She steps out of my arms, eyes big, blue and glassy. “Pinky swear you won’t tell anybody?”
I flash her a sympathetic grin. “That bad, huh?”
Her cheeks go pink as she studies the carpet. “I just don’t want Wes to overreact and do something dumb.”
I offer her my pinky. “I swear.”
She hooks hers with mine, then narrows her eyes at me. “You’re not allowed to do anything stupid either.”
I lift an eyebrow but keep my mouth shut. I’m dying to know why she’s upset, so I won’t let her back out of telling me now just because I’m unwilling to promise not to do something stupid.
She exhales a shaky breath. “Brody Connors kissed me at the fair.”
I grind my molars together and manage a grunt that sounds neutral enough.
“I overheard his friends giving him shit for kissing me. He told them he wasn’t even into it—that I kissed him and that I was terrible at it.” The words rush out, as if she thinks they won’t sting as much if she just rips the band-aid off fast. But I feel how much the words hurt her just the same.
Brody fucking Connors.
My jaw tightens, and I stop myself from jumping out the window to go find him right this second. I’m sixteen—that’s practically an adult. I should be responsible—find a way to make Quinn feel better.
I’m sure I can find a time to punch Brody Connors square in the face tomorrow.
“You’re right,” I say, my voice a tad too sharp. “Boys are stupid. You should just stop kissing them altogether.”
“Very funny,” she mutters and then curls in on herself. “But what if he’s right? What if I’m a terrible kisser?”
I grimace, unsure how to handle her worries.
“Brody Connors is an idiot, Quinnie. That dickwad wouldn’t know a good kiss if it knocked the braces off his teeth.”
That earns a snort-laugh, and I smile, even as my chest aches. I hate that anyone has made her feel this small.
“You wanna know what I think?”
She makes a face. “Not really.”
“Tough, ‘cause I’m telling you anyway. Someday you’re gonna kiss a guy and it will completely blow him away. You’ll be his entire world, and he’ll want to scream about kissing you from the mountaintops.”
“You really think so?” she asks, peering at me with those wide blue eyes.
“I know so,” I say firmly. “You’re smart and sweet and have an enormous heart.
One day, some guy’s gonna be lucky enough to be on the receiving end of one of your real kisses.
Not that weak fairground shit. And he’ll have zero chill and won’t be able to shut up about how lucky he is he gets to kiss you. ”
A smile tugs at her lips. “Thanks, Tripp.”
She tears open the pack of M&M’s and pops one into her mouth before holding it out to me. I pluck one from the bag and press a quick kiss to her forehead.
I start toward the window. “Anytime, Quinnie.”