Chapter 22
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
GUNNER
Rebel stomps out of the car and storms all the way up to her mother’s trailer. She wrenches the door open and disappears inside.
The door slams shut.
She’s gone.
I notice the driver flashing me inquisitive looks in the rearview mirror.
I stare pointedly at him.
He clears his throat. “I, uh, need to know where I’m dropping you off, amigo .”
I give directions. As the car takes off, I go back to stewing in frustration.
‘Just one look at your face ruins my day’.
Wow. Rebel Hart sure knows where to hit where it hurts.
“Yo,” the driver twists his neck to look at me, “about your girl, two things.” He sticks up stubby fingers. “Roses and foot massages.”
I give him a blank stare.
“Seriously. It works like a charm.”
“Were you listening to our conversation?”
“Kinda hard not to. Your girl’s pretty loud.”
“She’s not my girl.” I grunt. Rebel made that fact abundantly clear.
“Nah, don’t get too down about that. It’s scarier if she doesn’t blow up on you. When a girl checks out and she doesn’t care anymore, that’s the scary thing. If she’s emotional, it means you still got a chance to make it right.” He flashes me a grin. “You got this, amigo .”
It’s a bad idea to take relationship advice from a stranger, especially one who thinks an angry woman yelling ‘you and I are done’ is a sign of a healthy relationship. But I’m so desperate that I latch onto his encouragement.
If he saw our train wreck of a breakup—fake relationship or not, that was a breakup—and he still thinks there’s a chance to turn things around, I’ll take it.
The driver grins knowingly and says nothing more.
Left to my thoughts, I push aside my initial defensiveness, my hurt, and my disappointment and try to look at things from Rebel’s perspective.
Everything she said was right.
No matter how noble my intentions, the fact that I’m a Kinsey will always overshadow me. It was foolish of me to think that I could be seen for who I am outside of my family. Rebel will never be able to separate one from the other.
The driver slows to a stop in front of the giant ranch sign that serves as the entrance to our property.
He whistles. “You live here or work here, amigo ?”
I reach out to pay the fare and open the door.
“If you own this place, I’d mention that to your girl!” the driver calls.
He has no idea. This place and all it stands for is the reason Rebel will never be ‘my girl’.
“She’s into you, man. I can tell. Don’t give up.”
I pause.
Fishing out more bills from my wallet, I hand the driver a tip.
“Thanks, bro.” He waves the money around with a grin. “I’ll say an extra prayer for you and your girl to work things out.”
I appreciate that. Divine intervention is probably the only thing that can turn this mess around.
It’s quiet on the ranch, and I’m craving some alone time, so I take the long way home. Low clouds cover the stars, choking out the moon. The barn lights in the distance and my cellphone flashlight are all that illuminate my path.
Before long, the farmhouse looms ahead. A yellow light glows from the front-facing window. My parents are waiting for me to come home.
At the thought of another conversation with my mother, all my energy seeps out. I bet mom has a ton more to say about the dinner. In the time spent driving back to Lucky Falls and waiting up for me, she’s probably invented ten more reasons to be angry.
I’m okay hearing about how betrayed she feels, but I don’t think I can handle more cruel taunts aimed at Rebel.
It’s because of that fear that I decide not to go home.
Shifting directions, I cut through the orchard, inhaling the scent of freshly overturned dirt and ripening apples. I’m not sure where I’m headed… until I arrive exactly where I’d wanted to go.
The treehouse.
The ramshackle structure looks extra rundown and lonely tonight. I grimace at the overgrown vines, weathered railings and leaves scattered by the wind. The sunken-in roof is a giant safety hazard too.
Mom’s been mumbling about hacking the treehouse down and building a she-shed for years. But dad’s never allowed it.
“The treehouse has a solid foundation and good bones. Who knows? Maybe one day, it can be beautiful again.”
Testing dad’s theory, I climb up the ladder. The boards nailed into the trunk are slimy with mold and moss. If I didn’t have grip strength from years of playing hockey, I’d have slipped and probably cracked my neck.
Moving carefully, I clear the last rung and pull myself onto the small verandah. The logs dad used to form the floor of the treehouse are colored from age and neglect, but they hold my weight.
I spin in a slow circle, lost in happy memories. Like a movie—I see Rebel and I shrieking with laughter. Collapsing on our backs to find shapes in the clouds. Scooting all the way to the edge of the verandah, our bare feet hanging over while we snack on melting popsicles.
Before she was ‘the Hart girl’ and before I became ‘a Kinsey’, we were just Gunner and Bell.
I blink and the visions of the past are gone, replaced with the cold, dark present.
Was dad right? Can this abandoned, old eyesore ever be beautiful again?
Right now, it seems impossible.
Not unless someone’s willing to put in the work.
I look beside me, and for a moment, the five-year-old Rebel and the seven-year-old me appear, waiting to play again.
A surge of energy pulls me forward and I start snapping pictures of the treehouse with my phone, capturing every angle from the verandah to the roof.
Slowly and methodically, I catalogue all the areas that need to be restored. The rusty hinges on the door. The overgrown canopy roof. The questionable ladder.
When that’s done, I jog to the barn where dad keeps the farm pickup. The keys are always in the ignition. Dad’s the sheriff and few would be bold enough to steal from him.
It’s close to midnight when I drive through the dark, empty streets of Lucky Falls and head downtown.
A privilege of working at a hardware store? I have a key and the alarm code.
A privilege of being the nephew of the owner of the hardware store? I can loot the place without consequences.
I grab brand new hinges, cleaning solutions, and all the tools I need from the shelves. Stopping at the cash register, I write a note and tabulate the total of my ‘shopping spree’ so I can pay Uncle Robert later.
Next, I take over Uncle Robert’s workshop at the back of the store and spend a few hours measuring and cutting boards.
When I’m done, I turn off all the lights, set the alarm in the store, and return to the farm.
My first task is prying off the old, mildewed boards nailed into the tree trunk. I replace them with the wood I cut in my uncle’s workshop.
Next, I fix the door of the treehouse until it swings open and shut like a dream.
After that, I get to work hacking through the overgrown roof and shaping the canopy.
My phone buzzes what feels like minutes later. I pull it out of my pocket and flinch when I see the time.
It’s three a.m.
My phone keeps buzzing and mom’s picture fills the screen. I cut off the hacksaw, wipe the sweat from my brow and let the phone go to voicemail.
A moment later, the device chirps with a deluge of new messages.
MOM: Where are you?
MOM: Why aren’t you home?
MOM: At least let me know you’re alive, Gunner.
MOM: Even if you’re mad, you shouldn’t sleep outside.
MOM: Come home.
ME: Don’t worry. I’m fine. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
My phone rings again.
I keep working.
The light of dawn touches the horizon by the time I finish fixing up the treehouse. As a soft blueish-purple hue takes over the sky, I run the broom over the balcony, sending tree leaves, bugs, worms, and decades of moss skittering.
Every bone in my body aches and I’m pretty sure there are new callouses over my old callouses.
But it’s done.
I lean the broom against the railing and step back, admiring my work. I wiped or sanded down every wooden surface until it glistens. The canopy’s been pruned back, leaving one half as a natural roof and the other side free of foliage. The porch has been swept and tidied.
But something’s missing.
I scramble down to the ground and make a break for the daisy field. Grabbing a few of the wildflowers, I tuck them together and hold them carefully in my arms as I crawl back up to the treehouse.
Setting the bundle on the roughly hewn window, I step back and assess. The flowers add much-needed color to the dark brown of the wood.
There.
The treehouse is beautiful again.
As the sun spills over the horizon and birds trumpet to the start of a new day, a fresh resolve wells in me. With a decisive nod, I scramble back to the ground and head home so I can shower, change and make some calls.