Chapter 3
3
He wonders if anyone buys that bright, fake smile.
Silence greets me as I let myself into the modest ranch-style house that serves as the Jackson family home.
“Hello?” I call out even though I know no one’s here—I planned it that way. I just want to drop some things off before Lux gets home from the hospital, not intrude, and I knew if her sisters were home, everything would become way more awkward than I have the energy to deal with. Eliza would be… well, Eliza. Grace, one of the twins, would be sweet as she always is, but certainly wouldn’t beg me to stick around. And I’m ninety percent sure that Lottie, the other twin, would sooner chase me off the property with the shotgun Lux keeps locked up for predator-related emergencies than let me in the door.
But without them here, I’m free to haul my slightly excessive array of offerings inside and start putting things away, marveling over the silence. I can’t remember it ever being this quiet. In the years I was excommunicated from Serenity, I craved the noise that frequented this home, the life that lit up every corner. I hated myself for ruining the one bright spot in my life. I hated Jackson a little for taking it from me. I just… hated .
As I take in the framed photos decorating the walls, the old stone fireplace engraved with five sets of initials, the comfortably worn furniture, I come to the same startling conclusion I had a few months ago when I crept up the porch steps with my heart in my throat, right on the precipice of a second chance—I’m pretty sure I love this place more than I ever did the boy who brought me here.
I’m pretty sure this was my real loss.
The rev of an engine draws me from my thoughts. Peering out the window above the kitchen sink, I kiss my teeth at the familiar vehicle driving at a snail’s pace towards the house.
Of course, they’re early.
Nerves twist my gut as I step out onto the porch just as a truck rolls to a stop right near the bottom of the steps. Even before the tall, long-haired man climbs out the driver’s side, I can see Jackson’s frown.
Once upon a time, I could expertly measure my ex-boyfriend’s mood by the magnitude of those frowns, by the depth of the wrinkles etched in tan skin. I used to mold myself around them, decide what I needed to be based on them—Happy Caroline, Comforting Caroline, Quiet Caroline. If I really tried, I could probably decipher them again, figure out whether he’s pissed, confused, moderately irked by my presence.
I don’t, though. I know well enough by now that if he can’t have Absent Caroline, Politely Distant Caroline is Jackson’s preference. And his girlfriend’s too—Luna might act chill about the Ghost of Girlfriend’s Past hanging around, but I know not to push my luck.
As she emerges from the passenger’s seat, she’s a lot quicker to hide her surprise than her boyfriend. When I lift my hand in acknowledgement, she does too, and her wave is just as awkward as mine likely is. Her smile is warm, though. It usually is, with the exception of the first time we met, but God knows I deserved that.
Funerals make me feel weird. Jackson makes me feel weird. Combine the two and you get me at my absolute worst; acting like an asshole at his mom’s funeral, trying to help, but really making everything worse. Plus, seeing Jackson and Luna together, watching him look at her in a way he never looked at me, watching him rely on her in a way he never did with me… It was pathetic, how I acted. It’s been years—almost half a decade should be long enough to get over someone. Not that I’m not over him. It’s just… I don’t know. Something else. Something I can't place or name or quite put my finger on.
Like I said, pathetic.
But the good news is I’m adapting. I can be in their presence without choking on the stench of rejection, of failure, of wasted years and love and effort. But am I relieved when Lux eases herself out of the backseat, refuses their help far too aggressively for someone cradling a baby and hobbling on unsteady legs, and commands them to check on the ranch’s equine population before she does it herself?
Yes. Yes, I am.
“What’re you doing here?”
I catch my face before it falls completely. Rushing to help Lux up the porch steps, I guide her through the front door while rambling an excuse. “Sorry. I was dropping some things off and you got back sooner than I—”
“Line.” Lux sighs a weary noise. “It was just a question. Not an accusation.”
“Oh.” I reign in another apology just before it escapes, smiling sheepishly. “Welcome home.”
Tiredly murmuring her thanks, Lux settles into the chair I pull out from the kitchen table. When I take the seat beside her, she shifts purposefully, tilting the bundle in her arms my way. Trying, and likely failing miserably, not to seem too eager, I lean in to catch my first glimpse of the newest member of the Jackson family. Almost immediately, tears prick my eyes. “Lux, he's your twin.”
Undeniably, that tiny, tan, wrinkled face is a Jackson. It’s as if his father had as little involvement in his development as he will in his upbringing.
Asshole .
“Right?” Lux hums softly, wearing a look of pure and utter adoration as she swipes a thumb over her son’s forehead. “Alex,” she coos, and I fight a laugh. Of course, she named him that—naming her son after herself is a very Alexandra move. “You wanna say hi?”
One second, he’s in her arms. The next, before I even have a chance to protest, he’s being transferred into mine. I hold my breath as I hold him stiffly, too scared to move. When was the last time I held a baby? Have I ever held a baby? I honestly don't know. I do know that if anyone was going to drop this kid on his head, it would be me. And that if anyone could inspire a sudden screaming fit within a Jackson, it would likely be me too.
“Relax.” Lux huffs a quiet laugh, the exhaustion clearly weighing her down alleviating enough for amusement to shine through. “He’s not a bomb.”
No. But he’s tiny and fragile and, God, so cute. Blinking sleepily, that few-day-old face creases in a frown, like he knows it’s not his mom cradling him anymore and he’s not sure how to feel about it. Trying my best to sound comforting, I croon a quiet greeting. When he squawks a tiny baby noise in reply, my heart tumbles wildly in my chest. “I think I’m obsessed with your kid.”
“Join the club.” Lux strokes her son’s face again before slumping in her seat, rolling her shoulders with a low groan. As she drops her head back to stretch out her neck, she must catch sight of the items littering the counter that weren’t there when she left because her brows shoot up to her hairline. “Jesus, Line.”
Admittedly, I went a little overboard on some things—one Google search of the best teas for postpartum and breastfeeding moms, and I got lost in a dark, fragrant spiral that turned into a whole hamper of teas, soaps, and candles. The welcome home banner was a necessity, though. So were the carrot cake cupcakes from that bakery in Ponderosa Falls, the next town over, that Lux loves. I couldn’t not add a plant or two—non-toxic, air purifying, low maintenance plants, of course.
Lux snorts, eyes rolling before they land on the overflowing bag of diapers half-hidden in the laundry room. “A little?”
I pretend to be very busy cooing over Alex, and decide not to mention the homemade meals stocking her refrigerator and freezer. She’ll find them on her own soon enough. Maybe she’ll assume they were someone else’s doing, and I won’t have to feel awkward about overstepping.
With another eye roll that I swear is audible, Lux scoots her chair closer so she can slip an arm around my shoulders in a careful sideways hug. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Leaning into her embrace as much as I dare with such precious cargo in my grasp, I shrug. “I wanted to.”
The woman I was so desperate to be liked by for so many years, who I often thought was the coolest person alive—neither sentiments of which were returned—drops her head to my shoulder. “You wanna stay for dinner?”
I start to decline, but a hand whacking my thigh cuts me off. “That was a rhetorical question. You’re staying.”
“I don't want to intrude.”
“You're not.”
Rolling my bottom lip into my mouth, I glance at the open front door, towards the barn beyond it, and think about the two people lurking within it.
“They won’t care.”
Luna, maybe not. But Jackson… “You know he doesn’t love me being around.”
“He’ll get over it.” The arm around me squeezes a little tighter. “C’mon. Please? I want you to.”
Lux doesn’t know that those four words are my weak spot, that they speak to a little girl—and an adult woman too, if I’m being honest—who only ever wanted to be wanted. Four words and I fold like a cheap lawn chair. Four words that are my favorite to hear, yet I still feel the need to jokingly twist their meaning into something else. “You just want me to cook, don’t you?”
A tired laugh leaves my friend. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn’t already.”
I look at Alex and smile.
In the end, Luna and Jackson don’t join us for dinner.
Too much to do, apparently, since Jackson has been at the hospital with Lux for the last few days. No one mentions that he’s been away at college for the past four years and the ranch has managed just fine, or that there are three ranch hands—and three other siblings who must be around here somewhere—to pick up the imaginary slack, but it’s better that way. It’s easier to pretend they wouldn’t rather muck out dirty stalls than sit through a dinner with me.
Lux tries her best to stick it out. I hold Alex while she scoffs down a portion of lasagna, and then she feeds her son while she picks at a second helping and I eat too. But as good as my cooking is, it’s not quite tasty enough to distract from her droopy eyelids.
Before she ends up face-planting her half-eaten pasta, I slide her plate away. “Go to bed.”
“What?” Jerking upright, Lux shakes her head defiantly. “Nah. Not tired.”
I’d believe her, maybe, if her eyes weren’t closed.
“Well, I am.” Faking a yawn, I stretch my arms above my head in the most cliche depiction of exhaustion, but Lux is too far gone to clock my terrible acting. I stand and bring our dishes to the sink, yawning again even though my back is to Lux. “I’m gonna head home.”
Like I suspected, my friend was being polite and didn’t want to kick me out. A mere minute passes before I hear the creak of wood, and the umpteenth weary sigh in the past half hour fills the kitchen. “Guess I will go to bed then.” Footsteps shuffle toward me. A hand curls around my shoulder and squeezes. “Thanks, Caroline.”
Waving off the unnecessary gratitude, I bid both her and the baby goodnight, waiting until I hear her bedroom door shut before turning the faucet on. I wash both our plates and stack them in the drying rack beside the sink. I cover the dish of lasagna with plastic wrap, but leave it on the counter in case someone else wants some. Then, I start putting away all the stuff I brought over as quietly as I can so Lux doesn’t hear and reemerge to investigate.
I’m on my tiptoes shoving boxes of tea in the upper cabinets when warm air brushes my bare legs. Expecting to find one Jackson or another sauntering through the front door, I fix a friendly smile on my face, but it falters when instead, Hunter lurks in the doorway.
So handsome , an annoying little voice in the back of my head feels the need to whisper. If there was a way to shut that voice up, to stop my brain from noticing how freaking good-looking the guy is, I would do it.
But there isn’t.
I can’t not notice how his t-shirt is slightly see-through—from sweat or water or the sheer effort of being worn by so much man , who knows. Or how his jeans are no better, practically painted on to those long, thick legs. The boots he always wears are nowhere to be seen, likely toed off on the porch to avoid tracking dirt inside and earning his boss’ wrath. Never in my life did I think I'd find plain white socks attractive, but here we are.
It’s shameful how long I stand there gawking before I manage to collect myself and croak out a weak, “Hi.”
The grunted response I typically receive is a little easier to stomach when I’m expecting it. Hunter dithers awkwardly, that large body tense as he glances around the kitchen; like he’s hoping someone else is around to save him from my presence.
Sighing, I gesture to the covered dish still on the counter. “I made dinner.”
Surprise flickers across Hunter’s face. Wow . An emotion other than empty disdain. I didn’t know he could do that around me. I almost keel over when it’s accompanied by a deep, throaty, “Thank you.”
“I can warm it up for you.”
Hunter shakes his head before I can even finish the offer. I swallow nervously as he closes the space between us, jolting when one of the arms I often liken to tree trunks brushes against me as he reaches into the cabinet beside my head and retrieves a clean plate. “I got it.”
Another full, albeit short, sentence. Two in one night. Miracle of miracles.
Ignoring the weird, lingering warmth that radiates from the patch of skin he accidentally touched, I side-step to give him some room. Watching him scoop some food onto his plate and reheat it, I figure, what the hell? Maybe tonight’s the night I crack the giant grump. “Did you meet Alex?”
Chin-length, silky hair falls in Hunter’s face as he shakes his head.
No. Obviously not. Most of Alex’s first few hours home have been spent in my arms. Think, Caroline. “Right. Well, he’s adorable.”
Hunter grunts in time with the beep of the microwave.
“He—”
“You really can't tell when someone doesn't wanna talk to you, huh?”
My mouth clamps shut so hard, I'm surprised I don't chip a tooth. Blinking wildly for a couple of seconds, I force myself to maintain a smile. To shrug nonchalantly. To act like that snipped comment didn’t hurt like hell. “Just trying to make conversation.”
Hunter frowns. “I'm not interested.”
He doesn’t look at me, and I’m glad. Knowing my eyes are watery and my cheeks are bright red is bad enough without someone else perceiving it. Internally, I reprimand myself for not keeping my bad, unfortunately chronic habit in check; I never know when to shut up, never know when to stop pushing, can never tell when someone doesn't give a crap about what I'm saying. “Sorry.”
The only reply I get is the creak of a chair struggling to hold Hunter’s bulk, the clang of a plate hitting the dining table, the scrape of cutlery against porcelain. I watch him eat the dinner I made, and I feel… a lot. Sad. Tired. So painfully curious about the man once again pretending I don’t exist who looks perfectly content sitting there alone, who seems to prefer being alone—a foreign concept to someone who actively strives to avoid her own company.
I want to ask why he doesn’t want to talk to me. If I did something. I almost do, but my phone ringing saves me from what’s sure to be more mortifying, disinterested silence. I don’t check the caller ID; I just snatch it from the table and slip outside, quickly realizing my mistake when I answer and a voice barks, “Where are you?”
I take another cautionary step away from the house, keeping my voice low. “Hi, Dad.”
“Where the fuck are you, Caroline?”
Is it possible to smell someone's breath through a phone? Because I swear the stench of beer assaults my nose. “I'm at a friend's house.”
Dad snorts, muttering something beneath his breath that sounds a whole lot like ‘what fucking friends?’ “I want you home. Now .”
Home . Well. I guess that answers the question I’ve been trying so hard not to dwell on—he hasn’t even noticed I moved out.
Sucking in a deep breath, my entire body shakes with the effort of keeping my voice even and bright, a safeguard against any eavesdroppers. “I'm a little busy right now. Can I call you back?”
He ignores me. Or maybe he doesn’t hear me. His end of the call is so loud—full of boisterous laughter and muffled deep voices—I wouldn’t be surprised. “Get a couple cases of beer on your way home.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I'm sorry, Dad, I can't.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“I'm not coming home tonight.” Or tomorrow. Or the next day. Or ever, preferably.
He repeats his slurred question.
Because I don't live there anymore. “I just can't.”
“Caroline, I swear to—”
“I have to go.” For the first time in my life, I cut my dad off. Not for the first time, I lie to him. “I'll see you soon. Bye.”
I end the call, but not quite quick enough to avoid hearing the onslaught of curses spat down the line. Eyes still closed, I pocket my phone and cross my arms over my chest, hugging myself as tight as I can.
“You're fine,” I mutter. “You're freaking fine, Caroline.”
I repeat the self-assurance like a mantra until it chases away the lingering echo of my dad’s voice. When it finally does, I slowly uncross my arms and exhale a long, deep breath.
Suddenly, the need to get the hell out of here strikes me in the chest. Suddenly, being on this ranch is insufferable. Suddenly, the idea of being around a family that actually likes each other, for the most part, seems like the worst punishment imaginable.
I keep my head down as I hurry inside to grab my purse, but when I feel the palpable weight of being watched, I make the mistake of glancing up. Twice in one night, the expression I find on Hunter's face catches me off guard.
Inquisitive. Suspicious. Knowing, almost.
I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.
Dropping my gaze again, I head for the door. “Goodnight.”
His gruff reply follows me outside. “Night.”