Chapter 34
34
He thinks, once upon a time, he loved the woman repeatedly ruining his life.
But honestly, he can’t remember.
She's really, really pretty.
That's the first bizarre thought that pops into my head.
Strawberry blonde. Blue-eyed. Tall and slender. Tan, but in an artificially-manufactured kind of way, I think, because nothing about her indicates she spends anywhere near enough time outdoors to reach that level of sunny bronze—not a freckle, blemish, or wrinkle in sight. Plus, she’s grimacing like the fresh air personally offends her.
Or maybe that's just my effect.
She can’t be Hunter’s wife—that’s my second thought, because I can’t imagine any partner of Hunter disliking the outdoors. Looking so out of place on a ranch. Wearing a white pantsuit and red stilettos that match her lipstick.
I glance down at my own dirt-encrusted boots, at the frayed denim shorts that are really just old jeans with the legs cut off, at my—
The blood drains from my face. Because my wrinkled t-shirt isn’t my t-shirt.
It’s her husband’s.
Hunter is a husband .
I'm going to be sick.
“Hello?” The woman, the wife, Cheryl , crooks a perfect brow, irritation lacing her tone. “I’m looking for Hunter Whitlock,” she repeats slowly, patronizingly, in the same Southern drawl as Hunter except I find no comfort in her tone. It's not soothing or peaceful, not a sound I want to listen to on repeat forever.
It's mocking, cloying, overwhelming. It makes me dizzy. She makes me dizzy—I'm too disoriented to form a single word or thought or to truly process what the hell is going on right now.
A hand lands on my shoulder. “Caroline,” Lux says so quietly, so carefully. “Go inside.”
I can’t. I can’t move. I wish I could, I really wish I could, especially when a figure I know so well emerges from the barn and starts towards us, and I start to pray it’s all a lie. I hope for a twisted practical joke. I call on every ounce of good karma I might’ve wracked up over the years.
But then Hunter gets close enough to recognize the new arrival. And he does—he does recognize her. And I wonder if everyone can hear my heart break as loudly as I can.
A myriad of emotions flash across his face in a matter of seconds, and I don’t know if guilt not being among them is a good or a bad thing. I don’t know if it’s good or bad when his expression hardens—so angry, so resentful, so hurt —and he barks, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Cheryl smiles. Like his reaction humors her, like this is one big game, she smiles . “Thought I’d surprise you, honey.”
I flinch. Hunter does too. His gaze flits to me, softening with something apologetic and I flinch again because if he’s apologizing, that means he’s done something wrong, right? Regardless of how emphatically he insists, “It’s not what you think.”
“Really?” Lux’s tight grip on my arm is as harsh as her spat question. “That’s all you’ve got?”
Hunter’s mouth opens, but the sharp ‘ah’ of bitter understanding doesn’t leave him. Nor does, “I see you got yourself a girlfriend. They come from red lips quirked at the edges, as morbidly amused as the crystalline eyes flitting down the length of me. “She’s cute .”
A handful of brisk strides plant Hunter in front of me, his back blocking my view—and blocking me from view too. “Don’t, Cheryl. I mean it.”
“Oh, you like her.” A tittering, sarcastic laugh stains the air. “Adorable. Truly. A little young, but I suppose you did that to hurt me, right? Traded me in for a newer model? Real fuckin’ cliché, Hunt.”
Hunt. My ears burn. My eyes burn. My skin burns too, a scorching layer of disgust and mortification and bitter, bitter disappointment coating it. I don’t realize I’ve wrapped my arms around myself, that my nails are digging into my flesh hard enough to leave marks until someone pulls them away, and I find the sting of pain is a welcome respite from everything else, too soon eclipsed by a saccharine voice.
“The protective thing is fun at first, sweetie.” Even without seeing her, I know Cheryl is talking to me; the mockery dripping from her words gives her away. “But trust me, when you can’t even talk to another man without him bitchin’, it’ll wear off.”
I watch the muscles of a broad back ripple with agitation beneath the white material covering them. “It wasn’t the talkin’ I had a problem with.”
The obvious innuendo has Lux and I exchanging frowns.
“Really?” Cheryl scoffs. “You’re gonna hold that against me forever?”
“You fuckin’ other men? Yeah, Cheryl, I think I will.”
Hunter doesn’t yell yet his voice still booms around the yard, almost tangible in its ferocity. He’s shaking with anger and, despite everything, I find myself wanting to ease it. I find myself shuffling a step closer and fisting his t-shirt—reminding him I’m there or holding him back, I’m not sure. Either way, the trembling eases.
“So, what?” Cheryl huffs, and I picture her standing there, arms crossed, impatiently tapping one undoubtedly expensive shoe. “This is you gettin’ back at me?”
Thick fingers quickly wrap around my wrist, stopping my hand from abruptly dropping. “ This ,” he squeezes gently, “has nothing to do with you.”
Another snide scoff aggravates the ache brewing behind my eyes, in my temples, everywhere . I’m reaching my limit; drowning in so much devastating confusion, hovering on the edge of a breakdown. I almost collapse when someone else joins the conversation, briefly finding relief from the choking tension, a distraction from this train wreck.
Until I realize who it is, that is.
“You must be Cheryl,” I hear Jackson greet, and when I peer around Hunter, I find my ex-boyfriend shaking the hand of the wife of the only other man to ever touch me, the only other man I’ve spent the night with—the man I just spent the night with. Introducing himself. Welcoming her. Acting like he’s been expecting her.
The ground beneath my feet wobbles.
As she returns the introduction, the redhead’s smile is nothing short of cunning. There’s no escaping the emphasis she puts on her surname, nor the pointed glance she casts Hunter’s way. Jackson frowns, glancing between the pair—the couple . “Whitlock?”
Cheryl hums, the simple sound rife with smug satisfaction. “My husband speaks so highly of this place,” she says, and that one word has me retreating too fast for Hunter to stop me, stumbling back a step while my stomach churns. “So I thought I’d come see it for myself. Although, I guess it wasn’t the scenery he was enjoying so much, hm?”
There it is. My limit. My too much .
As bile rises in my throat, I take another step back. Then another. On the next, I pivot, following the trail to the place my brain automatically deems safe. Someone calls my name, someone else yells, but I barely hear it—I don’t want to hear it.
Too shaky to scale the ladder to the loft, I settle for collapsing beside it, the rough barn walls scraping my skin as I slide down to the ground, my knees finally fulfilling their promise of giving out. Hugging them to my chest, I close my eyes.
And I cry.
I barely get a single sob out before heavy footsteps interrupt me.
They come to a stop in front of me, and I don’t have to open my eyes to know who they belong to; I know that if I did, I’d meet a pair of hazel ones. I don’t, though. I don’t want him to be here. I just want to sit here alone, cry alone. In search of some semblance of privacy, my forehead drops to my knees, my shoulders shaking as I sob ugly, loud, awful noises.
I’m such a fool. I should’ve known better. I should’ve known it was too good to be true. I should’ve known.
A hand lands on the back of my head, fingers winding in my hair, warm lips brushing my temple. “Don’t cry,” Hunter begs, but it’s a futile plea—I don’t think I could stop even if I tried. “Please don’t cry, honey. Let me explain.”
“Get away from her.”
My head jerks upwards, avoiding looking at Hunter as I zero in on Lux. Fists clenched at her sides, she practically breathes fire as she fumes, “What, and I cannot stress this enough, the actual fuck , Hunter?”
Hunter rises from his crouch. “Lux—”
He’s barely upright before he’s shoved backwards by a woman at least a foot shorter than him, and a couple hundred pounds lighter. “You piece of shit,” Lux seethes, shoving him again, and he lets her. “ I told you . I told you to be careful with her. I told you to leave her the fuck alone if you weren’t serious.” Another shove slams Hunter against a stall door, startling the horse on the other side. “You remember that, Hunt ?”
“Lux, stop.” Scrambling to my feet, I grab my friend by the arm. The second I make contact, her hand covers mine, her fingers lace with mine and squeeze hard, but she doesn’t take her furious gaze off her employee.
“Get out.”
Pleading hazel eyes flick to me; mine drop to the floor. “I need to talk to her.”
“You don’t even get to look at her right now,” Lux snaps, dark hair flying as she shakes her head erratically from side to side. “You have a wife .”
“We're separated,” Hunter insists at the same time his wife floats into the barn and claims, “We hit a rough patch.”
A rough patch.
Logically, I know there must be more to it; a rough patch doesn’t send you to the other side of the country. I think I believe that they’re separated. But they’re still married .
Briefly, the tears subside enough to let a humorless laugh escape—he told me he didn’t have a girlfriend. That he hadn’t for a long time. Because he had a wife . The wife that’s now here, in my home, my safe space, staring me down like I’m the dirt muddying the hem of her pantsuit. Like I’m the intruder. Which, in her life, I guess I am.
“Hunt,” she says, emphasizing the nickname like she knows it makes my chest throb. “This is a little dramatic for me.”
At my side, Lux practically vibrates with anger. To her brother, she snarls, “Get her off my ranch.”
Jackson winces at her tone, but he’s stoic as he turns to Cheryl and asks, polite but firm, for her to leave.
Cheryl scoffs again—God, do I hate that noise—and smirks at Lux. “I’m a guest here, sweetie.”
This time, Jackson isn’t the only one to cringe. I join him, my face contorting twice for the price of one; the idea of Cheryl staying in the guest houses I help clean, that I stock with flowers, is just as horrifying as the condescending term of endearment she aims at my friend.
Or rather, the sparks it ignites in dark brown eyes. “ Oscar .”
I’ve never seen Jackson move so quick. In the blink of an eye, he has Cheryl by the arm and is escorting her out of the barn, leaving behind the echo of her shrill protests.
No one moves, no one says a word, the three of us listening with bated breath until we hear the purr of an engine starting, the rumble of a car slowly quieting as it gets further away.
An arm slinks around my shoulders and spins me towards the doorway. Two fingers tap my chin and urge my gaze forward when, instinctively, I try to glance at the man quietly begging for my attention. When Lux tells Hunter not to follow us, he tries not to listen. But then Jackson is there, rumbling something low and calm, and neither man follows us outside.
“I’m so sorry, Line,” Lux whispers in my ear as she leads me towards the house, her hand on my face unmoving, preventing me from glancing back like the utterly pathetic ache in my chest yearns to do. “I didn't know, I swear I didn't know.”
I want to believe that, but distrust clings to me like rancid oil, scrambling my thoughts and making me say things— accuse things . “Jackson knew who she was.”
“She booked under a different surname,” Lux fills the gap she and her brother must’ve rapidly bridged while I was crumbling. “But he didn’t know. We didn’t know.”
I believe her, I think. I can’t tell; I can’t feel. I’m numb as Lux guides me up the porch steps and into the house. I’m numb as she deposits me on her bed and briefly disappears, returning with a steaming mug of tea. I’m numb as I drink every drop under her instruction, letting the hot liquid scorch my dry throat.
And then, after the smallest of reprieves, a flip switches. It’s like I breathe the wrong way and my lungs start burning, and the tears return with a ravaging force.
Hunched over with a hand clamped on my mouth, I sob so quietly, it takes Lux a full minute to notice, only doing so when she finds the change of clothes she’s hunting for and turns back to me. Without hesitation, without a word, she climbs onto the bed beside me and tugs until my head hits her lap, and I become a pathetic, shaking ball that she curls around protectively.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Lux says again and again and again. “You don’t deserve this, and you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I did,” I try to say, try to protest, try to explain, but I can’t. Even if I could do anything but wail, I’m not sure Lux would let me. She’s so fierce as she assures my innocence, unwavering in the comforting mantra.
Her words are the last thing I hear before I fall asleep—or maybe I pass out. I’m not sure. I do know, though, what the last thing I think is.
Bright side; Alexandra Winona Jackson.