CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE SABRINA
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
SAbrINA
On the flight home, the attendant asks me if I’m alright.
I say yes, even though my mouth shakes when I smile.
She gives me the hot coffee, and I sip it as I think about getting coffee on the road with Coen.
I wonder what he’s doing right now. He doesn’t have my number, and I never gave him mine.
We had no reason for it. We sat alongside each other the entire time, and not once did it come up.
Now, I kind of wish he had it.
I might have left, but I hate the silence.
I text my Mom, and, to her credit, she’s happy I’m coming, even though it’s at the last minute.
She says she’s sending Hugh to get me at the airport.
I don’t know him well, and I wish she was coming, but she’s still at work.
She and Hugh don’t have any kids. They’re both happy with just doing their jobs and relaxing on the weekends.
At least, that’s what Mom says, but I think she was always worried we’d be hurt if she had a second family.
I press my forehead against the plane window.
God, it hurts to go, hurts to leave. It would hurt to stay.
We touchdown on time, and I drag myself off the stuffy plane.
I tell everyone my Mom lives in NYC, but that’s not really right.
They’re in New York State in an absolutely sickeningly enormous house with a view of the mountains from their perfectly manicured lawn.
When I was younger, and Serena and I would stay for a few months a year, I’d wonder if I made the wrong choice not living in luxury with her.
But I just couldn’t leave Dad.
Maybe I should have sent Serena. I can handle it, but she deserves to shine.
The airport is fairly empty, and I spot Hugh standing by the baggage claim.
I have nothing, I didn’t even stop to get my things from Coen’s house.
I changed in the airport bathroom after grabbing a tank, sweats, and slides from the gift shop.
I didn’t want to feel like the old Sabrina, or the Sabrina who rode by Coen’s side.
I need to feel like a new Sabrina for a few days, so I chose something I would never wear: bright pink with words across the ass. I look like I’m on spring break.
“Hey, Brina,” Hugh calls, waving.
He’s such a nice man. Calm, never raising his voice.
I hug him the way we always have, like two people who never got a chance to get very close but still love each other.
He’s a tall man with a lean, plain face, short hair, and thick glasses.
He wears his dockers, blue button up, and loafers wherever he goes. Everything whispers very quiet wealth.
It’s a shock after being in Wyoming.
“Thanks for getting me,” I say, voice shaking.
He steps back, frowning. “You okay? It’s a bit weird to just show up.”
“Yeah, sorry. I just needed a minute.”
He takes my purse but doesn’t move to the door. “What’s going on?”
I sniffle, looking away. “Guy problems.”
“Want me to beat him up?”
I smile at the thought of Hugh trying to beat up anybody. He’s not like Dad, who has scars on his knuckles from how many fights he’s been in.
“I’ll do it. I might not look like I can tousle,” he says, “but I used to work on the floor in the stock market.”
“I believe you, but he didn’t really do anything,” I say. “Can we go? I’m starving.”
He nods, but I can tell the minute we get in the car, we’re talking.
He leads the way to a sleek sedan and helps me in.
Deep down, as I look over and notice the cold coke zero and granola bar sitting in the console on my side, I feel that little sad stab of resentment against Dad.
It’s not fair. He did his best with us, we were loved, we had everything we needed.
But Hugh is thoughtful to a whole different level, and that makes me wonder who would have been a better father to us, if my choice robbed Serena.
It’s the reason I don’t resent Mom. If I met someone who treated me that well, I’d move for him too.
That hits me like a punch to the gut.
I watch Hugh circle the car.
I met someone who did. Now, I’m running scared.
“I got your favorite granola bar at the gas station,” Hugh says, sliding in and revving the engine.
“Thanks,” I whisper, peeling back the paper.
We get on the highway and head away from the city.
“You want McDonalds?” he asks.
I smile, lashes wet. “Yeah, I would love McDonalds.”
“Same order?”
“Yeah,” I manage.
He doesn’t interrogate me yet, but I feel it brewing. We drive through and get a double quarter pounder, a large fry, a diet coke.
“An ice cream cone?” Hugh asks, leaning away from the speaker.
“Hold the ice cream this time.”
“Alright, that’ll be it,” he says cheerily.
I curl up in the passenger seat, kicking my slides off. He hands over the food, and then we’re back on the road.
“Your mom’s really excited to see you,” he says after a while.
“I’m glad. I felt bad just showing up.”
He shrugs. “I mean, you have her pretty worried.”
I’m quiet, working through my fries. Eventually, he turns on the radio, and the screen fills with an album cover of blue water and a guitar half sinking.
Dax Williams, Western Midnight Blues. Except this is the remastered version, which means…
it’s the version with Coen on it. My stomach drops like a brick.
“Uh, I don’t like this song,” I say quickly.
He frowns, but in concern. “What is going on?”
Suddenly, I can’t take it anymore. For the entire drive across the States, I kept my worries bundled up and buried deep, because I couldn't talk about them with anyone, least of all Coen.
How can I wonder aloud if I have a chance at long term with him when we only just met?
The problem is, he acted like we meant something—in that tent, on the beach with his fingers skimming over my skin where the sunlight warmed it, in the motel room, driving with his hand on my thigh.
He acted like he was mine.
I hit the mute button abruptly and sniff. “Can I tell you something?” I manage.
“I wish you would, honey,” he says.
“Okay,” I rush. “I’m having guy problems. The guy is Coen Taylor.”
He veers a little and rights the car. “What?”
“You know how Dad was friends with Jamie Iron, his agent’s father? Well, Coen Taylor came out to the ranch for the summer. And we had…uh, we, uh—”
“I get it,” he says quickly.
My face burns, and I keep my eyes ahead.
“Then he had to go back to Nashville early, and he asked me to drive with him across the entire US. I said no because Dad, and Serena, and everything at the ranch. But then, I got up early and just went with him. And it was the best thing. We had the best time, and I was so, so happy.”
I’m crying, wiping my face furiously with napkins.
“And he’s working on this album, and we got to Nashville, and Jamie said it was the best thing he’s written in ten years,” I babble.
“I don’t know what to think, because it felt so real, but he’s not just…
a regular guy. I have to take care of the ranch.
And Serena, I can’t leave her, because it was my choice to stay with Dad, and sometimes I think you would have been a better father for her, and—”
“Brina,” he cuts in firmly. “Breathe.”
I shut up, inhaling. He waits while I blow my nose.
“Okay. So you’re with Coen Taylor?” he says.
“We’re something, but not together.”
“Is he playing you? Is that what’s hurting you?”
I shrug, then shake my head. “No, he’s never done anything to make me think that. He’s…perfect. He treats me the way you treat Mom. But he’s also like…one of the biggest names in country music. It’s not like he’s going to want to be with me long term. I’m not from his world.”
Hugh thinks, forehead creased deep.
“Your dad is angry,” he says finally. “He thinks Coen is playing you.”
Hugh has always been incredibly perceptive.
Weary, I nod and sink back, the burger untouched in my lap.
We’re out of the city, in the countryside with the million dollar houses with clean cut lawns and white sidewalks.
I stay quiet until we’re almost to the house.
When we stop at the gate so Hugh can tap in the keycode, I clear my throat.
“Sorry to just dump all this on you,” I whisper.
He drives through the gate. “Let’s get you settled, and we’ll order in for dinner later and talk about it. You don’t have any bags? No clothes?”
I shake my head. “I left everything at Coen’s house in Nashville.”
“Alright, your mom has some of your things clean and folded in your room.”
“Thanks.” My voice cracks.
We pull up outside the door, and I grab my purse. He gathers up the trash and leans across to push my door open.
“Go see your mom. I’ll park the car.”
I nod, getting out and pausing to watch him drive to the multi-car garage.
It really is like a whole different world out here.
Turning, I climb the stairs and pull the door open, stepping into the spacious front hall.
Mom loves lots of white, but Hugh is more of a classic vintage guy, so they compromised and managed to somehow mesh their two styles.
The effect is classy and clean. My shoulders sink, and the familiar scent of my mom’s favorite vanilla candles hits my nose.
“Brina? Is that you?”
I pad down the hall barefoot. I guess I left my slides in the car. Mom appears around the corner and throws her arms around me, pulling me in briefly. She steps back, frowning.
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Boy drama.”
“Really?”
“Complicated boy drama.”
Mom flips her bleached blonde hair back and folds her arms over her chest. I have distant memories of her before the divorce.
She was quiet and wore pretty plain clothes most of the time.
Post divorce, she blossomed. Now, she’s a green juice consuming Pilates and workaholic machine with a body fat percentage to make a body builder jealous.
Do I want to be my mom eventually? No, but I love how she glows with Hugh.
“How complicated—oh no,” she whispers, eyes widening.
Hugh appears behind me, holding my slides. Mom puts her hand on her forehead.
“Oh my God, she’s pregnant,” she whispers.
“Mom! I am not pregnant,” I yelp.
“She’s not. She’s got big time boy problems,” says Hugh, laughing as he goes by to put my shoes away.
“God, thank goodness. I don’t want some loser knocking up my daughter. You want some wine then?”
We all go to the huge kitchen, and Mom takes out a bottle of white wine, lining up glasses on the granite counter. Derry, the goldendoodle, skirts around the corner and nuzzles my hand. The house is warm, and I feel safe. My shoulders start to relax.
“Tell me, right now,” Mom says, handing me a glass.
I do, catching her up to where I left Hugh. When I stop, her jaw is slack.
“Okay,” she says. “Why don’t you call him?”
“Don’t have his number.”
“What?”
“Mom, we were in the same truck and tent for days. It wasn’t like we needed to call each other, so it didn’t occur to me.”
She studies me for a long moment. “Honey, are you wearing airport clothes?”
Looking down, I nod. “Yeah, it’s all I had.”
“Alright,” she says, placing her palms on the counter. “You go up to your room, and I’ll bring you some clothes. I bought you a new sweatsuit the other day when I was out shopping, I think it’s in the dryer still. Shower up. Hugh, order dinner. Then, we’ll talk.”
“Good idea,” Hugh says, stepping in.
Derry follows me up the stairs. I can hear them talking down below as I make my way through the enormous hall.
My room is the way I left it last Christmas, except I can tell it’s been cleaned.
Mom decorates our rooms the way she wants to, which is fine by me.
It’s her house. Serena’s is bright pink with gauze, and mine is cream with a canopy bed covered in light blue curtains.
The carpet is so thick, it comes up over my toes as I cross the room to turn on the bathroom light.
Wow, I look like I’ve been on a plane and then cried in the car.
I flip on the shower and strip down. The shower is enormous, the exact opposite of the shower in the motel.
My heart hurts.
I’ve been gone a handful of hours, but I already miss him. Stepping beneath the water, I close my eyes and let it all flood back. How solid he is, how his hair feels in my fingers, how warm his arms are.
It’s more than that, though.
My nervous system heals when he’s near. I don’t worry so much. It feels like being anchored safely in a harbor. Without him, I’m drifting, wondering who I am.
I can’t believe I did that.
I left the ranch. I saw and did so many new things. I thought I was brave enough to see this all the way through and go home. But I’m not.
“Honey!”
Mom’s knocking on the bathroom door. Startled, I lean my head through the curtain.
“Yeah?”
“I'm leaving your clothes on the bed.”
“Okay, thanks!”
Her footsteps recede. I wash everything and get out, wrapping up in a towel while I dry my hair.
The clothes Mom left for me are a cream and pink sweatsuit.
Everything is color coordinated with her.
Smiling, I slip into the soft fabric, pull my hair up, and head downstairs.
Everything smells faintly of food, so I guess delivery is already here.
“We got Italian,” Mom sings. “Oh, and I texted your sister.”
Guilty, I realize I forgot. Taking my phone out, I send a quick message to let her know I’m at Mom’s trying to figure things out. Hugh appears with a bottle of red in one hand. Mom already has three plates of pasta, bread, and veggies on the island.
“Alright, start talking,” Mom says.
“There’s not a lot more to say,” I admit.
Knock-knock.
Hugh frowns in confusion, but the second I hear it, I know who that is.
My stomach flips, and warmth floods my veins.
I’m frozen as Mom circles the counter and disappears into the hall.
The door creaks open. Hugh and I stare at each other as a familiar voice floats down the hall.
I know it from real life, he knows it from the radio.
Coen’s here.