Chapter Five
The kitchen smells like vanilla, warm peaches, and lemon dish soap.
The peach cobbler still lingers on my tongue.
The day is over. I’m exhausted, and my belly is full, but that doesn’t mean I get to skip the last chore of the night.
We don’t scatter after meals here. Grandma and Aunt Irene cook. We eat and clean up together.
I’m at the sink beside Grandma, sleeves rolled up, hands slick with suds.
Charli is rinsing and loading the drying rack, clanking plates just a little louder than necessary.
Matty wipes the counters and stove, moving with that efficiency she’s perfected over years of being the one in charge, whether she wanted to be or not.
It’s nice. The ritual of it. Daddy, Grandpa, and Uncle Boone park themselves in front of the television with a cup of coffee. Cabe and Caison clear the table and bring all the dishes in to us, and we knock them out.
It doesn’t take long. We’re like a well-oiled machine.
When Caison appears in the kitchen doorway, Matty instinctively moves to him. Like a magnet drawn to steel. Tall. Handsome. Sexy. Solid steel.
“Waylon just texted,” Caison says easily. “I’m gonna head out and pick him up.”
The name lands like a dropped plate.
I keep my eyes on the glass in my hands, scrub harder than necessary, letting the sound of running water drown out the ringing in my ears. Charli stills beside me, pausing mid-wipe, then resumes like she didn’t notice a thing.
“We’ll probably be out a while,” Caison adds as he pulls Matty into him.
He kisses her softly, and I melt a little. He’s so good for her, and he’s comfortable moving in this space with us. He’s part of us now. Part of this family. Part of this house. Part of her.
“I’ll call you to tell you good night,” he says.
“Be careful,” Matty replies, smiling up at him. “And make good choices.”
He chuckles, low and warm. “I always do.”
Charli mutters something under her breath and makes a gagging noise.
I cut my eyes to her. “Oh hush. You and Bryce are just as bad. Maybe worse.”
“We are not! Bryce doesn’t have a sappy bone in his body,” she says as she flicks water at me.
Caison kisses Grandma on the cheek, gives Charli a grin, nods at me, and then he’s gone. The front door closes. His boots thud down the steps. The truck starts and fades into the night.
We finish quickly after that. Plates stacked. Stove gleaming. Kitchen quiet.
“Well,” Charli says, reaching for the wine bottle on the counter, “time to wind this week down.”
I shoot her a look. “I’m too tired tonight.”
“There’s no such thing as too tired for Friday night wine,” she replies instantly, already pulling the cork.
Grandma turns from the sink. “You girls enjoy yourselves. I’m gonna go sit down with my fella,” she says, waving us toward the back door. “My feet are killing me.”
Evelyn Storm is a force of nature. She’s been a rock all these years, but she’s getting older and a little slower.
She’s earned that.
The cold hits hard when we step outside. The air is sharp and crisp, smelling like hay and woodsmoke from the chimney. The stars are bright, scattered thick across the sky.
Charli and I take the porch swing, the chains creaking. I tug the collar of my sweater up to my chin and settle in. Matty turns on the gas fireplace, flame whooshing to life and throwing warmth across our legs.
Charli pours the wine, handing us each a glass. I take a long drink.
“So,” she says casually, like she’s commenting on the weather, “Waylon Ludlow.”
I groan, “No.”
“Oh, yes,” she says. “We’re not skipping over that.”
“Skipping over what?” Matty asks.
She snorts. “Did you not see her face at dinner when Caison brought up his name?”
“What face?” I ask.
“The one that looked like you wanted to commit a felony.”
I glare at her. “You’re dramatic.”
“I’m observant,” she counters. “It’s the same face you made at Matty’s engagement party.”
That stops me, and I feel my spine go stick straight.
Matty looks confused. “What reaction?”
Damn it.
Charli points at me. “That one. Right there. Like you hate him, but more than that, like you wanna rip him to shreds with your bare hands.”
I shift on the swing, wood biting into my thighs. “I don’t hate him.”
“That,” Charli says sweetly, “is a lie.”
“I don’t. I just don’t like him.”
“Viscerally,” she adds. “Which feels like more than don’t like.”
Matty studies me, curiosity sharpening her expression. “I didn’t notice anything at the party.”
“Because you were busy being the princess in Caison Galloway’s fairy tale,” Charli says gently. “The rest of us noticed.”
I take another drink, wishing the wine were stronger.
Charli sips hers, and her keen eyes stay on me.
“Harleigh knows,” Charli says.
My stomach drops. “Knows what?”
“She told me, and I quote, ‘Shelby has every right to walk over and punch him square in the nuts.’ ”
Matty blinks. “That’s … specific.”
“And yet,” Charli continues, “she refused to elaborate.”
Matty turns to me, hurt flickering across her face. “Why does Harleigh know and we don’t?”
I open my mouth, then close it. Old instincts kick in. Deflect. Minimize. Move on.
“It’s nothing,” I say.
“That’s another lie,” Charli says.
Matty’s voice is quieter. “I don’t like being out of the loop, Shell. You guys are always keeping secrets from me. Spill.”
The guilt hits hard. The truth is, we’ve always told each other everything. The three younger sisters, braided together tight. And Matty, half in, half out.
“Why is that?” Matty asks softly.
Charli answers for me. “Because growing up, you were worse than Daddy.”
“Hey,” Matty protests.
“You were the fun police,” Charli says. “Rules. Curfews. Consequences.”
“Someone had to keep you all from going hog wild,” Matty snaps.
The words hang there, heavy.
I see it then—the sadness in Matty’s eyes. The old weight she’s never quite put down. Our mother gone too soon. Matty stepping into a role she never asked for.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say quietly. “You had to be strict.”
It just sucked that she didn’t get to be the big sister helping us sneak out of our bedroom window instead of the one nailing it shut so we couldn’t.
Matty looks away.
I sigh, reach for the bottle, and pour myself another generous glass. If I’m going to do this, I need courage.
“Fine,” I say. “You want to know? I’ll tell you. Some of it.”
Both of them focus their expectant gazes on me.
“You all know I had a stupid crush on Waylon Ludlow from about five years old,” I say.
Our mothers were friends. Every weekend, Mom took us to Ironhorse while she and Priscilla drank tea and gossiped.
The memory aches. “He was always bigger. Louder. Already sure of himself.”
Charli smiles faintly. “You followed him everywhere. Like a shadow.”
“I did,” I admit. “Middle school made it worse. He kept getting taller, handsomer, more athletic, and popular. I … didn’t.”
Matty shakes her head. “You were athletic.”
“That came later,” I say. “I started barrel racing because of him. He was roping. I thought if I rodeoed, too, he’d notice me.”
“But you loved it,” Matty says.
“I did,” I admit. “That part was real.”
I take a breath. “Once I stopped chasing his attention and focused on training, it came naturally.”
Charli rolls her eyes. “Did it work? Did he notice?”
“No,” I say. “Maybe a little. He flirted, but he did that with everyone. He didn’t have to try. Girls lined up for him. The town’s rich, handsome golden boy.”
“So, you hated him for that?” Charli asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
The memory tightens in my chest.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, spit it out,” Charli cries.
“It was his high-school graduation party,” I say. “Big. Lavish. Everyone was there. The entire graduating class. People from rival schools. All the underclassmen.”
I cut my eyes to Matty. “I had to beg you to let me go.”
“I remember. He was two years ahead of you and a little wild. I was afraid you’d get into trouble.”
I nod. “Yeah, well, you were right to be worried. There was alcohol. A lot of it. Waylon’s friend’s older brother brought a case of moonshine and snuck it past Priscilla and Holland.”
My voice softens. “We ended up in the barn.”
Charli’s eyes widen. “We …”
I take a deep breath. “Yes. We. Me and Waylon.”
She grabs the wine off the table beside the swing. “We’re gonna need more wine for this,” she says as she tops off our glasses. She sets the empty bottle down and turns back to me. “Continue. It’s just getting good.”
“First, he kissed me out at the bonfire,” I say quietly. “And it felt like everything.”
Charli squeals despite herself. “Was he your first kiss?”
I look away. “Yes.”
The porch goes silent.
“So, he’s a good kisser? I bet he is.”
I nod. “Made my toes curl.”
Charli sighs.
“How did you end up in the barn?” she asks.
“We went for a walk. Looking for some privacy and that’s where we landed.”
“Then what happened?” Matty asks.
“Other things.”
“What other things?” she asks.
I swallow. “All the other things.”
Charli gasps. “Shelby Marie Storm, did Waylon Ludlow pop your cherry in a barn?”
I bite my bottom lip and nod, not able to meet their eyes.
“So, he wasn’t just your first kiss; he was your first everything,” she whispers.
“Yep.”
“God, you were, what, sixteen?” Matty mutters.
Charli rolls her eyes. “You were sixteen.”
“No, I was eighteen. And I was a very mature eighteen. Eighteen going on thirty-five,” Matty says.
“True,” Charli agrees, then turns her focus back to me. “How was it?”
“He was very drunk,” I mutter.
“Ugh, did he have a hard time keeping it up?” she asks.
“Nope, not at all.”
“He didn’t force you to do anything, did he?” Matty asks, standing to her feet.
“No. No. Nothing happened that I didn’t want to happen. I was very into it. But it lasted all of a few minutes once he got my pants off. And when it was over, he said, ‘sorry,’ and walked back to his party. I walked all the way home and crawled into bed with Harleigh and cried all night.”
Matty’s voice sharpens. “That son of a bitch took advantage of you.”
“No,” I say immediately. “I wanted him. I guess I just had this fantasy built up in my mind and thought it would mean something. That it would matter to him.”
“The first time always disappoints,” Charli mutters as her arm comes around me.
“Mine was in the back of Gary Black’s pickup.
It took all of ten seconds for him to come, and I barely felt a thing other than sticky afterward.
But he still walked around like a peacock for a week, thinking he’d rocked my world. ”
Matty shakes her head. “Ew, Charli,” she mutters.
“What? It’s true. What about you? Was your first time all that great?”
Matty shrugs. “I thought it was. Better than you two for sure.”
“So, tell us,” Charli insists. “We want all the sordid deets—where, when, who.”
“It’s not that interesting. I was eighteen and apparently a late bloomer,” she says, giving Charli a pointed smile. “And it was at the cabin that you and Bryce currently occupy.”
Charli groans. “Ugh, Carl? Your first time was with Carl?”
Carl Teague was the operations manager here at the ranch for years. He and Matty began dating about six months after he was hired on, and three years later, they were engaged. They never made it down the aisle though. Thank God.
“Yep. Cooked me dinner, bought me flowers. There was music and wine. It was nice.”
“Boring,” Charli sings before focusing back on me. “Did Waylon at least apologize for walking off like that?”
“Nope. The next day, he was at the diner with Heather Cooke … and he acted like nothing had happened. A week later,” I finish, “he left town, and that was that.”
Matty’s hands clench. “I’m going to kill him.”
That makes me laugh. “Matty, it was eight years ago.”
“I don’t care how long ago it was.”
“See, this is why I never told you. I didn’t need a mother to go on a tear and threaten to kill him. I needed a big sister to let me cry on her shoulder.”
Silence settles over us, broken only by the fire and the wind.
Charli lays her head on my shoulder. “You’re absolutely allowed to punch him in the nuts if the mood strikes you.”
That makes us all giggle.
Matty’s eyes shine. “I’m sorry you had that experience.”
I shrug, even though it still stings a little. “It was a long time ago. I’m over it. We were young and stupid.”
“Are you over it though?” Matty asks.
“Yep. I mean, so what? My childhood crush didn’t turn out to be the Prince Charming I had built him up to be in my head. Most aren’t. It’s not a big deal. And it doesn’t matter anyway. He’ll probably be gone again next week.”
“Fuck him,” Charli says, raising her glass.
I sit up and raise mine too. “Fuck him.”
Matty rolls her eyes but follows suit.
And somehow, confessing it out loud to my sisters and declaring it just an idiotic teenage mistake that I’m long over makes me feel like it’s true.
Waylon Ludlow and our drunken, fumbling night together is nothing but a faded, regret-filled memory.