Chapter 33
C onnor is picking us up any minute for Harper’s birthday party.
I’m wearing Delilah’s baby pink sweater. It’s hi-low, the front hanging at my waist, the back dropping below my butt, and soft as a cloud. I’ve paired it with simple black leggings that fit like a glove, and my pink Chucks.
Tucking my hair behind my ears, I take one last look at my phone camera—growing my hair long again feels like a huge step in reclaiming my autonomy from other people’s actions and opinions.
I opted for a touch of mascara and lip gloss today and I feel really pretty.
I grab my Reid-jacket and meet Delilah and Connor in his truck.
I’ve never been inside the main house, and I'm stunned how huge it is. Somehow, the inside feels ever bigger than the massive exterior looks. We follow the sounds of adult conversation to the kitchen. A cacophony of little kid giggles echoes from somewhere deeper in the house.
Clearly more comfortable than me, Delilah allows Connor to take her by the hand and leads her over to visit with Quincy. Little fucker is always stealing her from me, and I need her right now. And where the hell is Livy?
I meander into the living room and take my time looking at all the family pictures displayed. A lifetime of memories for this incredible family. Longing and a touch of envy sours my gut at what I’ve never had—but I'm so glad Reid did.
A stunning stone fireplace is flanked by large bay windows. The light streaming in from outside reflects off something shiny on the mantle. Are those?—?
Reid’s grandfather’s lucky spurs adorn the oak mantle. The two steel spurs are secured by leather straps mounted to the velvet back of a hand-built wooden shadow box. The display is clearly well taken care of, not a speck of dust in sight.
The spurs look brand new, in as good condition as the day they were gifted to Reid’s grandpa.
I’m warmed recalling the sweet story of how his grandparents met.
His grandpa must’ve taken the lucky spurs off his boots and never used them again.
The only sign of age is the soft blue tarnish to the silver inlayed design.
Flanking one side of the shadowbox is a black and white photo of Reid’s grandparents on their wedding day.
Tears prick the backs of my eyes from the love emanating from the picture.
To have a love so strong would be my dream come true.
On the other side of the shadowbox is a color photograph showcasing three generations of the Andersen family.
Reid and his brothers appear to be teenaged in the photo, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, mischief personified.
Beside them are Mr. and Mrs. Andersen, twenty years or so younger than I know them as today.
Seated in front of the younger generations are Grandpa and Grandma Andersen.
Their hands are clasped together, an easy affection from the decades of their love story.
Their aged faces and tired bodies do nothing to hide the sheer adoration the couple has for each other and for their family.
I wipe hot tears from my cheeks and pull myself together. No one wants to see a blubbering stranger in their living room at a kid’s birthday party. I move on from the fireplace and find a shelf displaying a collection of strange little critters.
Looking closer, I find that they're all armadillos. A stuffed animal armadillo, a glass figurine armadillo, a steampunk upcycled metal armadillo, a framed photo of an armadillo. This might be the oddest thing I’ve ever seen, and I definitely didn't expect to see it in the Andersen’s home.
A throat clears from behind me in the living space and I whip around to locate the sound.
There stands Reid, looking devilishly handsome, with an indecipherable expression on his gorgeous face.
His beard is trimmed, and his hair is pushed back out of his face.
It looks like he got a bit of a haircut.
It flips out sexily above his ears and at the nape of his neck.
The man can make jeans and a T-shirt look like sex on a stick, I swear.
I give the best smile I can muster, with as uncomfortable as I am. “Hi.” I fan my fingers at him in an awkward wave. Reid stalks closer to me, with slow, heavy steps—his eyes drinking me in. He gulps before he rasps, “You look really pretty. Thank you for coming.”
I S-W-O-O-N. Is it hot in here? Is it passy-out-y in here?
Why is it so endearing and flattering that he called me pretty?
He could’ve said nice, beautiful, gorgeous, any superlative.
But pretty? A jar of butterflies releases in my chest. My hindbrain is screaming Reid Andersen thinks you’re pretty!
Thirteen-year-old Isabelle would be peeing her pants with glee.
“Thank you for inviting me.” I pause, electricity zapping between us. “My sister and Connor are with Quincy. I haven’t seen the father of the birthday girl yet.”
Reid chuckles. “You won’t see much of him. He’s too busy wrangling fifteen eight-year-olds in the bunk room. Trust me, it’s a valiant sacrifice. You don’t want to go back there.” He chuckles.
“Luckily Olivia is back there helping him. That girl is a force of nature and connects with the kids way better than his grumpy ass does.” He's so funny when he's relaxed, I love that about him.
Like.
I like that about him.
I can’t contain my curiosity, so I ask, “What's with the armadillos?”
Reid’s expression dims and he stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. He's looking down at his boots and won’t meet my eyes. I feel like I’ve crossed a line, but I have no idea what it is.
“I’m sorry, you don’t have to tell me. That was nosy of me.” I backpedal.
“Naw, it’s ok. Someone deserves to hear about them and keep the memory alive.” I watch him intently as he walks to the shelf and touches each armadillo reverently.
“Fuckin’ Sam.” He huffs a laugh. “That kid was obsessed with armadillos since elementary school. Saw one in a picture book and never looked back. Every school project was on armadillos. Every zoo visit he’d ask if they had an armadillo yet.
As he got older it became a family joke.
Every Christmas and birthday, since they were a week apart, we’d give him armadillo socks, or an armadillo coffee cup.
Just dumb shit to make him laugh.” He pauses, living in the memory of his brother.
“He didn’t take his collection to college and never bothered to move it to Laramie when he and Quincy bought their first house. Mom never throws anything away, so these armadillos have lived on this shelf for, shit, twelve years.”
Tears shine in his eyes. Reid looks around at the dozens of family photos, Sam’s smiling face shining back at him.
“I haven’t spent any time in this room. It was too hard to see all the memories, you know?”
“Maybe now it’ll be a little easier,” I offer with a smile.
Suddenly, a stampede of children rushes past us into the dining room. Eight candles are lit, “Happy Birthday” is sung delightfully off key, and cupcakes are distributed and demolished within minutes. The horde retreats to the bunk room, and I feel like I survived a tornado.
I'm still reeling when I feel Reid’s warm, rough hand take mine and lead me from the dining room.
I trail behind him back into the family room.
He leads me to sit on a small loveseat and squeezes in beside me.
He wraps one giant arm around the back of the sofa and using what can only be magic, hands me a dessert plate with a single cupcake.
I catch myself staring. He's so handsome. His eyes are like crushed gemstones, flickering in the fire light. The scarring on his face enhances his masculine appeal. I could look at him forever and still feel smitten.
“Thank you for coming out. I can’t explain it. It just feels right that you’re here.” He sticks a single candle in the center of the cupcake and pulls a lighter from his pocket. He lights the candle and meets my eyes.
“Make a wish.”
I look over his shoulder to the lucky spurs gleaming on the mantle.
It does feel right being here. I inhale slowly and close my eyes. As I blow out the candle, the wish sings in my head.
I wish for my happily ever after .