Chapter 5
5
He wonders if she’d be quite so eager to chat if she could hear the thoughts in his head.
I would be lying if I said I was completely surprised when Oscar Jackson broke up with me.
In the moment, sure, I was shocked. Devastated. Flooded with pure, blinding panic. But hours later, with my thumping head resting on a damp pillow, I felt the oddest sense of relief. The kind you feel when something you’ve been expecting, dreading , finally happens.
As much as I tried to convince myself—and him—otherwise, I knew I wasn’t what Jackson really wanted. I knew his sisters barely tolerated me and that was an undeniable dealbreaker, though I never quite knew what I did to deserve their loftiness. I knew that no one wanted me around Serenity Ranch as much as I wanted to be there. But knowing didn’t stop it from hurting. Didn’t stop the teary days when I’d drive halfway there before catching my mistake, or the long, lonely ones with barely a soul to talk to because it wasn’t just my boyfriend who broke up with me and promptly left town—he was my best friend too. He left, and so did pretty much everyone else in our class, including the couple of girls I was the friendliest with, who I now see maybe twice a year when they visit.
Everyone but me got out of Haven Ridge.
Everyone but me, and Lux.
Hiding behind the foliage decorating Bloom’s large window, I watch my friend from a distance. With Alex strapped to her chest, she weaves through the Sunday morning food market, either oblivious to my borderline stalking or ignoring it the same way she ignores every other eye on her.
I know those looks. I’ve been the recipient of those looks, and the oh-so-subtle whispers too—such beautiful accompaniments to that idyllic small town life. When it was me, pity fuelled the attention.
Look at poor, heartbroken Caroline. Unceremoniously dumped by her high school sweetheart. Boohoo .
But Lux… yeah, there’s nothing pitying about the side-eye thrown her way.
Backing up a step, I blow out a breath. For a painfully slow fortnight, I’ve been avoiding anyone with the last name Jackson. Well, not avoiding —more like distancing. Only going to the ranch if summoned, not inserting myself in every situation at any given chance. Y’know, normal people things. Healthy, non-codependent things. The opposite of pathetic and creepy things.
Things that have nothing to do with being reamed by Lottie Jackson, obviously.
“Hello? Are you even listening to me?”
Jerked from my thoughts, I cast a sheepish glance towards my young coworker. “Sorry. What did you say?”
Nova heaves a long, dramatic sigh. “I hate girls.”
Right. Yes. Before I got distracted by Lux sauntering past, we were rehashing last night’s antics over lunch. Well, Nova’s antics. The party she attended, a common occurrence in the college sophomore’s life. Fake IDs and cheap beer. Meeting the love of your life only to find them making out with your friend while you were getting a drink. I’m pretty sure the frequency of the latter is specific to Nova, but what would I know? I can’t say I attend college parties all that often.
Or any parties, ever.
Remembering the banh mi in my hand, I take a bite, washing it down with a thoughtful sip of bubble tea. “Did you really throw a drink in her face?”
Nova feigns innocence as she picks cilantro out of her own sandwich. “I tripped.”
Even I can tell that’s a lie. “You know, Grace Jackson and her girlfriend just broke up.”
Brown eyes narrow in my direction, an accusation floating within them.
I shrug. “Just saying.”
A wave dismisses me, a fake shudder wracking tan shoulders. “I'm not getting involved with a Jackson. The ‘whole package’ thing with that family is too much for me.”
My head bobs in a nod. Preaching to the choir here. They’re good people, but their tight-knit bubble is daunting. Hard to penetrate. Unless you’re Luna Evans, of course—she succeeded in mere months what took me years to only half achieve.
“What about you?”
I raise my brows as I toss the end of my lunch in the trash. “What about me?”
“What did you do last night?”
“Nothing much.” I don't think watching an old season of Alone and passing out before midnight would qualify as a riveting night in Nova's book.
“No hot date?”
As if. “Nope.” When Nova sighs her disappointment, I echo the noise. “I don't have time for dates.”
“You don't have time or you don't want to?”
My nose wrinkles. “Both?”
“Why not?”
Where do I start? Being completely and utterly socially hopeless is probably a good jumping off point. Living in a small town where the dating pool is limited to people I went to highschool with is another major drawback. Not being interested is an excellent point too, though I’m not sure I can voice that one with any real conviction.
“You should try,” Nova presses. “You’re too pretty to waste away in here.”
If I wasn’t so pathetically caught up on her calling me pretty , I would maybe point out the problematic nature behind saying being single at my age is wasting away . Although, I guess when you’re barely nineteen, almost-twenty-three does seem pretty ancient. “Drop it, Nova.”
“One date,” she pleads. “Just one. If you hate it, I'll never mention anything again.”
I recognize that look on her face. The pleading, dog-with-a-bone relentless look that indicates she’s not going to give up easily, and I internally whine at the sight of it.
I’m self-aware enough to admit I’m a pushover. Self-deprecating enough to know it’s a weak, pitiful quality. Self-catastrophizing enough to fear if I don’t give in, Nova’s disappointment will be so great, she’ll immediately end our friendship and never speak to me again. The terrible combination works awfully quickly, inconveniently efficient as it urges me to give in and date whoever Nova wants me to, if only to please her.
The bell above the front door jingling saves me from myself. I breathe a sigh of relief but it’s quick to catch, my stomach clenching as Lux strides into the store. An unhappy Lux. An ‘I have a bone to pick with you’ Lux, which is exactly what she says after tossing a greeting Nova’s way.
Mustering up my best attempt at a breezy smile, I pretend to not notice her glare. “What’s up?”
Lux jerks her head towards the staircase. She doesn’t give me time to object, marching up there with me on her heels trying and failing to stop her, entering the room I didn’t tell her I moved into before I can come up with an excuse as to why .
She comes up short when she trips over a pair of shoes, frowning at the offending fluffy pink slippers. At the pajamas crumpled on the floor beside them, too. Then at the tattered woolen blanket strewn messily across the bed, and I wonder if her frown deepens because she’s putting things together, or if it’s because she recognizes it as her little sister’s handiwork.
It’s the former, I decide, when that pinched face swings to me. “You live here?”
Crap .
Frozen on the top step, I use both hands to shove my burgeoning panic aside, and try very hard to execute an unbothered shrug. “Yup.”
There. That’s it. Casual. Not a big deal.
“Since when?”
“Not long.” Narrowed eyes call bull, but at least this, I don’t have to lie about. “A little less than a month.”
“Why?”
I shrug again as I saunter casually—or at least I try to saunter casually—further into the apartment. Leaning against the kitchenette counter, I scramble for a subject change. “Did you wanna talk about something?”
Holding my breath, I wait to see if she’ll let me get away with it, or if she’ll push. My money’s on the latter, so it’s an overwhelming relief when she surprises me. “Come over later?”
“I didn’t forget.” How could I? It’s a big day at the ranch—there’s an old storage barn that needs cleaning out to make room for more horse stalls. Lux asked me to help out weeks ago, and I even dusted off my old western-style work boots for the occasion. Yeehaw, and all that.
Lux shakes her head. “No, I mean after. Stay for dinner. We can watch a movie or something. I need to be around someone who isn’t related to me, working for me, or monosyllabic.”
Avoiding her gaze, I needlessly rearrange the vase of calla lilies decorating the counter. “I’m not sure I can.”
There’s a brief pause. A sigh. Footsteps. Then, Lux ducks into my line of sight. “You’ve been kinda AWOL lately.”
“I’ve been busy.”
With what? her frown seems to say, and I flinch just a little, adding, “I didn’t want to bother you.”
“You don’t bother me.” Playful sarcasm curls her lips. “ Anymore .”
It’s a joke, I know it is, but it still hits a little harder than intended. It must show on my face because Lux swears while Alex gargles a noise that sounds suspiciously like ‘uh-oh.’ “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Lifting my gaze, I do what I do best; fake a smile. “It was funny.”
A shaking head of dark hair disagrees. Reviving that frown, Lux cocks her head inquisitively. “Did something happen? Someone say something?”
“No, I just…” I scramble for the right words, the right version of the truth. “I didn't want to overstay my welcome.”
“ Line .” Lux groans, her head momentarily dropping back in frustration before righting. She takes a step forward, Alex’s sling brushing my middle as his mother plants her hands on my shoulders, her grip heavy and her expression serious. “I thought we were past this.”
Past what? Me being her brother’s ex? Her not liking me? Her family not liking me? Her family never liking me because… like I said, I don’t even know. We never talked about it. One day, we weren’t even on speaking terms and the next, she was visiting the store, inviting me to lunch, asking to join me on a trip to one of the flower fields nearby. I never asked what changed because I didn’t really care, I don’t really care, I’m just glad it did.
But sometimes, the not knowing makes it easier for the doubt to creep in. The insecurity. Not a trait I particularly like about myself, but it’s there, and there’s nothing I can do about it. “We are,” I lie—kind of? A little bit? “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to bring all of that up.”
Looking every bit the mother she recently became, Lux sternly repeats, “You don’t bother me.”
I try to look like I believe her. “Okay.”
“We're friends,” she says, her tone leaving no room for arguments. “I'm not gonna take that back. You've grown on me.”
Beneath the fake smile pasted across my lips, a genuine one twitches. “Like a fungus?”
Lux adopts a mischievous grin of her own. “I was thinking more like a weed, but sure.”
As I drag a broken bookshelf outside, shallow breaths leave in wheezes—the storage barn is basically one enormous dust ball determined to reignite the asthma I, for the most part, grew out of when I hit puberty.
Resting my palms against the dilapidated furniture, I suck in deep lungfuls of fresh air, willing the whole panting and wheezing thing to stop because talk about embarrassing . A hand landing on my lower back makes me jump, and another jolt of surprise rushes through me when I look up and find Grace frowning at me worriedly. “You okay?”
I nod as I quickly straighten up, wiping my dusty hands off on my shirt and offering a smile. “Just unfit.”
Skeptically, she tracks my uneven breaths. “You need your inhaler?”
It’s my turn to frown. “How do you know about that?”
“My brother used to make us vacuum every time you came over in case the dust triggered an attack.”
“Right.” I laugh around the sudden hard lump making my throat feel tight. “Explains why you all hated me so much.”
Grace’s face falls fast, her ponytail swishing as she shakes her head in a panic. “We didn’t—”
“I’m joking. Kinda.” I bump my hip against hers, smiling softly. “I’m all good. Thanks for checking.”
The sweeter—by a long, long shot—of the Jackson twins returns my smile. I’ve always liked Grace. Everyone likes Grace—she’s known as the nice sister for a reason. I bet Lux didn’t even have to bribe her to help out today, like I know she did with Eliza, and God only knows how she roped Lottie into this. Who, unlike her twin, is not happy to be here. And she’s not afraid to show it either. I think she's 'accidentally' broken more things than she's salvaged.
I tried not to take the nasty scowl she shot my way to heart, if only because everyone else got the same treatment. Except for Grace, that is. It must be a twin thing, how she’s the only one the faux redhead tolerates. And protects, I guess, because I can only assume that our conversation being cut short by a loud, summoning bellow is Lottie saving her poor sister from my presence.
As Grace runs off, I start back towards the barn, but my footsteps slow when someone emerges from the wide-open doors. Wood creaks and snaps as Hunter tosses the old chairs in his grip to the ground. Six chairs. Three in each hand. Not a drop of sweat on his brow or a single heaved breath.
Show off.
Instinctively, I start to offer a greeting, but my lips clamp shut at the last second, my face screwing up when I remember the last time I tried, and spectacularly failed, to talk to him. What was it he said again? Oh, right— I’m not interested . How could I ever forget? It’s not like the mortifying incident has been playing on repeat in my head for weeks or anything.
I think my silence surprises him. I don’t think he expects me to walk past him without a word, just like I certainly don’t expect him to follow me. I almost trip over my own feet at the sound of his heavy footsteps echoing mine, but I persevere. I pretend he isn’t there as I choose my next project, and my choice has absolutely nothing to do with him.
I don’t make a beeline for the armoire missing its doors because it looks light enough for me to move, but big enough to be impressive. But I do definitely regret my decision when I give it one push and it budges approximately zero inches.
Damn it.
Well, I can’t give up now. Not when watchful hazel eyes are glued to my back, judging my every move. Rolling up my metaphorical sleeves, I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts—ranch work unfortunately does not agree with pretty sundresses, and calls for more practical denim—and grab one side of the armoire with both hands, ready to yank as hard as I can.
A noise distracts me before I can. An odd, consistent rhythm, like…
Oh my God .
Like the sound of a cowboy boot tapping against the floor—as if it’s on the foot of a petulant, impatient child, not a grown freaking man.
A rare flash of indignation straightens my spine. Huffing an incredulous noise, I glance over my shoulder, eyes wide and my brows just about grazing my hairline. “Seriously?”
Hovering what I really think might be an entire foot over my five-eight self, Hunter does an exceptional job looking down his nose at me. “Need a hand?”
It’s truly amazing how three little words manage to sound so condescending. “I’m good.”
Newly determined, I pull at the ugly hunk of wood that’s bigger than me. It moves, barely, but it does, and thus begins the slow but steady process of me tugging, the armoire barely giving, and Hunter judging my progress—or lack thereof.
A whopping sixty seconds passes before he loses patience.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” As easily as he nudges me aside, Hunter hoists the furniture up. Like, literally up . A hand on either side, he lifts the thing off the ground and carries it outside like it’s freaking Polly Pocket furniture.
I repeat; show off.
Following him, I try very, very hard not to admire his bulging biceps as he sets the armoire down. “I had it.”
Hunter makes a noise as he dusts the dirt off his palms—not quite a scoff, but something pretty damn close. “Sure.”
“I didn’t ask for help.”
He doesn’t even bother scowling. He just peers down at me like I’m not even worth the facial exertion. “You're in my way.”
I wonder if he notices my eye twitching. “I’m just trying to help.”
This time, he definitely scoffs.
What the hell? My palms are more splinters than skin, my lungs more dust than air, but I’m not helping? Seriously? Frustration bubbles in my blood, that unfamiliar indignation growing and morphing into irritation that sizzles beneath my skin and makes my head feel a little fuzzy—makes my question come out a little louder than intended. “Have I done something to you?”
Dark, thick brows furrow. “What?”
“Have I done something to you?” I repeat, just a decibel below shrill, ignoring the erratic thump of my heart as I plant my hands on my hips and try not to look like I’m one sharp word away from crumbling. “You seem really mad at me and I don't know what I've done wrong, so I'm asking. I’m not trying to get in your way, or be a nuisance or annoying or useless or whatever else you think I am. I’m just trying to help my friend, and it would be a lot easier if you stopped acting like I ran over your freaking dog or something.”
Slowly, silently, those pretty eyes close. They stay that way for a moment—I recognize that silent prayer for inner strength well, and whatever brave demon is possessing me rears its head a little more—before reopening.
Nostrils flaring as he breathes deep, Hunter shrugs.
Shrugs .
And, in the flattest, most unconvincing tone, he says “You didn’t do anything.”
My bravado deflates a little. So he just doesn’t like me? Something I can’t do anything about? Something I can’t fix? Great . “Can you just stop snapping at me then, please?”
For what feels like the longest moment of my life, Hunter stares at me. Head tilted to one side, lips parted, brows up, he stares. And for that one moment, he almost looks apologetic.
And then that moment ends.
Dropping his gaze, he brushes past me, his voice low and harsh. “Stop getting in the way and I will.”