Blair
With Mom napping, the dishwasher running, and a sinking feeling I’ve forgotten to do something this morning, I say “fuck it” and head outside with my yoga mat tucked under my arm. I haven’t had the time or energy for exercise since moving back home two months ago, and I can feel it in the creak of my bones and the anxious nattering in my head. In Vancouver, I went to the gym daily and, while it didn’t magically fix my depression like all the online health gurus promised, it definitely helped. The endorphins clear my head and calm my nervous system in a way nothing has since the last time I barrel raced at eighteen.
With a flick of my wrist, I unroll the mat across the spongy grass and settle into Virasana, deeply inhaling the mountain air. Exhaling the exhaustion. Inhaling the sweet honeysuckle aroma. Exhaling my consternation.
As my breath moves my body into a table position, I close my eyes, reveling in the momentary peace. Just as I feel a soothing wave roll over me, the loud vibrations of my cell phone on the glass patio table disrupt it. I breathe intentionally, trying to tune out the noise. But it buzzes. And buzzes. And buzzes. Until I feel like I might flip the table if I have to hear it one more time.
I snatch the phone and hold it to my ear, not bothering to check the call display. “ Yeah? ”
“Whoa, somebody’s in a mood,” my sister, Whit, says in her obnoxiously calm voice. You’d think she’s the one in the middle of yoga practice. The voice is fake—her way of masking the fact that she’s about ten seconds from a nervous breakdown. She’s always been better than I am at suppressing impending explosions.
“Sorry. What’s up?” I sigh and roll the mat back up, chucking it on the ground before sinking down into a wooden Adirondack chair.
“I’m at my wit’s end with your nephew. He got himself suspended today for graffiti. Graffiti. On the principal’s office door, no less.”
“Was it good graffiti, at least? People pay big money for that.”
The other end of the line falls completely silent. Whit clearly isn’t finding me as funny as I find myself.
“Sorry. That’s stressful. Um…I can take him while you work. I’ll have to move some things around….” My brain’s going a mile a minute trying to work out how I’ll take care of my troublesome ten-year-old nephew, give Cass a hand with Hazel, go to work, and check in on my mom throughout the day. “Yeah…I’ll tell Cass I can’t go out to the ranch, I guess.”
“Thank you, you’re a lifesaver. Do you think you could take him to grab some new sneakers, too? Sorry…I know it’s a lot to ask. I’ve just been run off my feet here, and I’ve asked Alex a thousand times, but you know how he is.”
My sister became a mom at nineteen, and a single mom at twenty. Her baby daddy, Alex, is only ever helpful when he’s single and trying desperately to get back in her pants. So if he’s not willing to buy his own kid shoes, he must have a new girlfriend.
“Of course, Whit.” I pull the elastic from my hair, set it on the table, and comb my fingers from my temple to the nape of my neck. “Has Alex tried talking to Jonas about his behavior at all?”
“What do you think? He doesn’t give enough of a shit. ‘Boys will be boys’ is his go-to phrase, which is entirely unhelpful.”
I gag directly into the phone. “If Alex wasn’t partially responsible for creating my nephew, I would despise him for that statement alone. How long is Jonas suspended for?”
Whit groans. “Two days, this time. They said if there’s another incident, he’s out for the rest of the school year.”
A breeze drifts around me, coaxing out an army of goosebumps on my bare thigh. “He won’t. He’s not stupid, he’s just…”
“A boy.”
I laugh. “Sure, I guess. Not that it gives him a pass.” I rub at my leg like I’m trying to get a stain out, hoping the friction smooths the spackling on my skin.
“Speaking of boys…how has it been seeing Denny?”
“Awkward, to say the least. He’s been acting like nothing ever happened between us, so I guess he’s over everything. Which is…nice.” Certainly eases some of the guilt I’ve carried over the years. I loved him and I never had a doubt that he loved me, but we were eighteen. We made stupid choices, and abandoned each other. I don’t know—maybe your first love is meant to hurt.
“And you’re not over it?”
“I was until I came back here. It’s a mindfuck going to the ranch all the time and…Okay, I told you he injured himself at the rodeo when I was there, right? Now I have to see him as a patient.” I groan and slump farther down into the patio chair, remembering how Mom mentioned inviting him for dinner again this morning. “Also, Mom won’t shut up about him since we ran into him last week.”
“She’s always had a soft spot for him….”
“Bet she’d be less than impressed with him these days. Out fucking everything with blond hair and tits.” I roll my eyes.
“Well, he is a boy.”
I scoff. “If you start sounding like Alex with the ‘boys will be boys’ crap, I swear I’ll disown you. Anyway, he’s hardly a boy. He’s thirty-two, Whit.”
I bet he has a couple of gray hairs. I bet he has a bad back and gets heartburn. Nobody with gray hair and heartburn has any business fucking around at rodeos every weekend.
“So then why don’t you appease Mom? Invite him over so she can see how different he is, and maybe she’ll quit talking about him.”
“Oh, yeah, as if he won’t come in and turn on the charm for her. I’m banking on her forgetting about this soon. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow when I pick up Jonas. I’m gonna try to”—I pull my phone away from my ear to check the time—“ never mind, no time to finish my yoga. I have to head to the clinic.”
—
Dr. Brickham’s office—which I suppose is also mine now—is a hole in the wall at the far end of Wells Canyon’s Main Street. An unassuming brick building, likely one of the first things constructed in town, nestled beside the Anglican church. The glass front door swings open, tripping a trio of tinkling bells to alert Wanda, our receptionist, of my presence. Despite the dingy walls and worn parquet flooring, Wanda maintains a relatively warm and welcoming atmosphere in the small waiting room. It always smells clean, the room’s lined with neatly arranged chairs, and magazines are perfectly fanned out across the coffee table—if Brickham could be bothered to put a little money into this place, I’m confident Wanda would make it shine.
She pops up from behind the oversized oak desk with a smile that nudges her thick glasses up her nose. “Good afternoon, . Mr. Davidson canceled his appointment for today.”
“Of course he did.” I sigh. It’s not surprising. I saw his wife a few weeks ago, and she was eager to have somebody other than Brickham to help manage his diabetes. But like nearly every other farmer and cattleman around here, I knew he wouldn’t show from the moment his wife booked him in.
At least that gives me a minute to breathe.
I stride across the empty waiting room to my office door and slip inside. The candle warmer I evidently left on last night gives the room a moody, amber glow, and I don’t bother with the overhead lighting. Instead, my body melts into the plush desk chair, and I take the first full exhale of my day.
Then I stare down at the stack of files Wanda color-coded for me. I’m still not entirely sure if it’s hazing or him making the best use of an extra person in the office, but Brickham’s managed to slam me with every bit of paperwork possible. Prescriptions, supply orders, exam requisitions, doctor’s notes…you name it, I’m the one filling it out.
Homing in on a thick binder of workers’ compensation paperwork, which I accidentally put off for so long Wanda felt the need to add hot pink Post-its indicating urgent , I pluck at my wrist blindly, searching for a hair elastic. Nothing.
Fuck. I must’ve left it on the outside table at home.
I groan and sort through the cluttered top drawer of my desk, until I finally come across a bright green rubber band. It’ll probably rip out a bunch of my hair with it, but that’s a price I’m willing to pay so I can focus on work without the distraction of hair in my face.
After securing the ponytail, I wrangle a pair of earbuds from their case and pray Taylor Swift can help me through this mind-numbing task. And she does. I’m so deep into data entry and the folklore album, I don’t notice somebody entering the office until they’re scaring the ever-loving shit out of me by yanking a stack of papers from under my nose.
“Denver.” I breathe out his name, trying to calm my racing heart now that I know I’m not about to be murdered. My earbuds slip into the case, and a harsh exhale blows the wispy baby hairs fallen across my eyes.
“,” he says with that stupid singsong voice and that equally stupid smile. “Terrible bedside manner, as usual—keeping a patient waiting for fifteen whole minutes. Thanks to you, I now know all about Wanda’s Yorkiepoo…though I still don’t really know what that is. A dog, maybe?”
He drags an empty chair across the room with an obnoxious screech and plops into it on the other side of my desk.
“Yes, Winston is a dog.” I gather the paperwork I’m in the middle of completing, pushing it to the side of my desk before sifting through the remaining stack to find Denver’s X-ray results. “Well, it looks like your collarbone healed fine.”
“Told ya so.” He smiles, leaning forward and tapping the paper between us with his finger. “Now you can sign this, and come watch me kick ass at the rodeo this weekend.”
“I’ll sign the form because it’s been six weeks, and I don’t have a legitimate medical reason not to. But I’m not going to sit there and watch you hurt yourself again.”
I can’t. I lost all my senses last time. I don’t know how I managed to watch him risk his life weekend after weekend when we were kids, but just thinking about it makes my palms clammy. And he’s not even mine to lose now.
Mouth agape, he clutches his chest like he’s been stabbed. “Damn, that’s how little faith you have in my riding abilities? I’ll have you know I almost never get hurt.”
“Good. That means I don’t have to worry about you being a frequent patient here.” I bite my cheek and wince as his face falls.
Quickly recovering from my verbal slap, his tongue darts out briefly, leaving his lower lip glistening as his sullen expression turns into a small smirk. “On second thought, I might start throwing myself off the horses. Make a habit of getting injured.”
“Of course you would.”
“You know…I probably need a complete physical. Full body exam.” He makes like he’s about to undo his belt, and I throw a hand up to stop him.
“Great, I’ll schedule you an appointment with Brickham. I’m sure he’d be happy to give you the full rundown. Maybe even a prostate exam.” I nod, pretending to be looking at scheduling on my computer—as if Brickham would ever keep a digital schedule.
“Hard pass.”
I sign the rodeo association’s health form and slide it across the wooden desktop toward him. “There you go. Have fun this weekend.”
“Still think you should come. Red and Cass are going to be there.”
The only good reason I have for skipping the rodeo is knowing I’m playing with fire by being around Denver. But I can’t say that. Knowing him, the admission would make him try harder to get me to engage in flirtatious banter. And for what? So he can have another fuckboy conquest?
“No, thanks. I should really stay home with Mom.”
“Speaking of which…when are you going to quit denying me my lasagna?”
I roll my neck with an irritated exhale. “Forever, Denver. My mom’s confused, and even though she won’t shut up about you right now, it doesn’t mean we need to do dinner. She’ll forget about it—and you—eventually.”
He leans forward, scooching his chair until he’s practically on top of my desk. “Sounds like I need to come visit her while she still remembers who I am. And if she can’t make her famous lasagna anymore, it’s no big deal. I’ll bring pizza. Friday night at seven?”
“No. I don’t want you coming over to hang out at my house.”
“Well, I’m not coming there for you, Hart. I want to hang out with your mom in her house. I’d love to have you join us, but if it makes you too uncomfortable…”
My leg begins to bounce uncontrollably—my stiletto heel tapping against the floor is the only sound in the room for a moment.
“I know what you’re doing,” I finally say.
He raises a questioning brow. “Oh yeah?”
“You’re acting like a sweet, charming guy so you can get another notch in your bedpost. You’re a fuckboy who’s trying to win me over by being kind to my sick mother. I’ll save you the trouble—I’m not interested in sleeping with you.”
He snorts, and those dangerous fucking dimples pull in slowly as a beaming grin spreads across his face. The corners of his eyes crinkle in the dim glow of my desk candle warmer, and he leans in close enough I catch a faint whiff of musky cologne.
Denver Wells wears cologne now?
“, if I were the type to keep notches on my bedpost, we both know yours would’ve been the very first. That’s not what I’m doing here.” He folds his hands on the top of my desk. “Thanks for enlightening me about the kind of person you think I am, though. But you’re wrong—I genuinely want to come visit and make your mom happy. You can be there. You can hide out in your bedroom. You can go out with your friends.”
Side-eyeing him, I think about the genuine smile on Mom’s face when we ran into Denver in the parking lot. She talked about him nonstop for the hour drive home, and even after a full week she’s still bringing him up.
“Why are you so invested in this?”
“Because I’ve lost enough people to know you don’t take shit like this for granted. If your sick mom wants me to come over for dinner, I’m not going to turn her down.”
Fuck. I can’t argue with that.
“Okay…” I sigh. “Okay, you can come over.”
“I’ll come over Friday with pizza. And Saturday you’re coming to the rodeo.” His dark eyes meet mine as he stands, and my stomach flip-flops. I open my mouth to protest it, but he taps his hand on the desk and turns to leave. Looking at me over his shoulder when he reaches the door. “It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”
—
Jonas shifts in the car’s backseat, and I steal a quick glance up at him in my rearview mirror.
“Sorry, kid. Just checking the cameras back at the house because Grandma tripped the door alarm.”
He nods silently, and I continue scrolling through the camera views on my app. When I’m confident she hasn’t left the house and wandered off, I toss my phone into my purse and throw open the car door.
“Okay, let’s be super speedy in the shoe store, please. I have a patient coming at eleven, and we’re already running behind.”
His freckled nose scrunches, and he looks up at me while kicking a rock across the parking lot. “I thought you were hanging out with me all day.”
“I am. But it’s also a weekday, which means I have work I can’t get out of. Unfortunately, drawing a penis on my boss’s office door would earn me a lot more than a two-day suspension.”
He smiles to himself, trying to hold back a laugh—no doubt about the word penis .
A rush of frigid air hits us when I open the door to the small, quiet shop. Spotting a kids’ section, I gesture for Jonas to follow me, and we silently peruse the sneaker selection. I clock the employee staring at her phone behind the cash register, but otherwise it’s only us and the haunting voice of Celine Dion in the room.
As I should’ve anticipated, a text message rattles among the metal shelving, and Jonas gives me a whale-eyed stare, as if he’s prepared for us to get in trouble for making a noise.
Cassidy: quick Q: can you pick up some diapers for me? 3
I can. Although we’ll be even more behind, so I’ll have to call the clinic and let Wanda know I’ll be a few minutes late. And then I’ll also have to ask Whit to check on Mom, since I don’t have time to pop in before my afternoon is full of patients. Shit, and I don’t know what I’ll feed Jonas for lunch—a ten-year-old boy can’t skip meals the same way I tend to do. Hopefully Wanda can help with that, too.
I glance over at Jonas and hold up a plain black pair of sneakers. “How about these ones?”
His face contorts. “Mid.”
“ Okay. So, like, is that a yes?”
“Dad said I could get some Nikes.” He continues down the aisle, then holds up a gray Nike sneaker. “This one’s good.”
“Well, your dad isn’t paying for them.” I start scanning the tower of boxes to look for his size. “And if I’m spending over a hundred bucks on a pair of shoes, they’re going to be for me. What size shoe are you?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. But I need these ones.”
With an irritated exhale, I hold my empty palm out toward him. “Give me your shoe so I can check the size.”
My phone beeps again in my back pocket while I wait for him to untie his sneaker.
Dad: Hey kiddo, I’m gonna be late tonight, so you’re in charge of dinner.
Frozen pizza, it is.
“Jonas, can you please pick up the pace?” I snap my fingers at him, and finally he hands over a sweaty sneaker, which I have to bring disgustingly close to my face in order to read the worn number printed inside.
“All right. They don’t have your size in these black ones. So, how about gray?” I point to the neighboring shoe on the shelf.
“How about Nikes?”
“ Jonas. ”
“ . ”
I huff. “Okay. First of all, I was in the room when you were born, so you’ll put some damn respect into the auntie title. Secondly, you don’t deserve shit after getting suspended, so you should be thankful you’re getting anything at all.”
I toss his stinky old shoe, and it lands with a thump at his feet, but he makes no move to put it on.
“I’m not wearing them.” He pops a shoulder with discontent, staring longingly at the stupid shoes that cost a ludicrous amount, given how quickly kids outgrow or ruin them.
“Well, that’s a fight for your mom to have with you.” My fingertip jumps between the boxes to find his size in a charcoal pair. “Please put your shoe on so we can leave. We’re seriously running late.”
The shoebox I need slips out of the pile like a Jenga block, and I stand back up triumphantly. He shuffles his old shoe around with his foot, but doesn’t put any real effort into slipping it on.
Watching him is excruciating.
My blood pressure’s a percussion playing behind my eardrums, and I anxiously lick my lips. “Jonas, please . I’m gonna leave here without you, at this rate.”
“ Relax, ” he chides, finally sliding the stupid shoe over his stupid little foot. And by the time it’s tied and he catches up with me, I’m almost done paying for the “mid” sneakers.
“My dad is just gonna buy the Nikes for me when I see him.”
I roll my eyes discreetly, knowing damn well I’m only here buying shoes for a preteen boy because his dad is a deadbeat. And if he buys his kid some nice shoes, it’ll only be because he’s trying to win my sister over in their appalling on-again-off-again situationship.
“You know what, kid? I hope he does.”