Chapter 7 #2
“I don’t know, bud.” My lungs constricted. “But I know it’s the best place for him right now.”
I held him, tucking his head beneath my chin, until he wiggled out of my arms. Then I microwaved a bag of popcorn, sliced a cucumber, counted out eleven blueberries, and set him up in front of the TV while I recovered from this adventure.
Explaining to my kids that their dad was in jail and that I had put him there had been devastating.
We’d had help from therapists, and I’d done a lot of my own research, learning special phrases to use in the hope of comforting them, but there was just no way to articulate to a six-year-old that his father was a piece of shit.
That I hoped he rotted in prison for the rest of his miserable existence.
That he wasn’t redeemable. Not because of what he’d done to me, but because of what he’d done to Julian.
I couldn’t close my eyes at the end of the day without reliving that night.
The moment he struck my baby. Parts of me shattered right there and then.
Along with the innocence that all three of my children still possessed. And we’d never get any of it back.
But we had to move on. It was up to me to rebuild their lives. I had to do better, be better. Give them all I could.
I settled Julian with his lunch in front of an episode of Octonauts and made sandwiches for the girls.
All the while, waves of shame rolled over me.
Lashing out at Josh was unfair. I’d taken out my fear and panic on him.
Yet it wasn’t his fault I carried so much trauma around with me and he didn’t deserve to suffer because of it.
Each time our interaction replayed, I was even more certain I’d been wrong. Maybe he was an ass, but regardless, I’d lost the plot.
After giving the girls strict instructions to sit next to Julian and keep eyes on him until I returned, I picked up my phone and headed back to that barn. I was a big girl, and I’d take responsibility for my fuck-ups.
I’d just closed the door behind me when the sound of boots on gravel caught my attention. He strode toward the cottage, sweaty and looking annoyed in his damn hat.
At the sight, my stomach did a weird little flip that I refused to acknowledge.
“I was coming to apologize.” I crossed my arms, setting a boundary between us.
He stopped a few feet from the porch, his lips turned down.
I eased down a few steps, putting us eye to eye.
“I was also coming to apologize.” He gritted the words out like they tasted badly and dug the toe of one of his work boots into the dirt.
A flare of annoyance flashed inside me, he couldn’t even let me apologize? But I forced the emotion away and steered back to my plan.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I overreacted and took it out on you.”
He nodded. Saying nothing, his eyes hidden beneath his hat.
“I’m struggling.” I hated that I was spilling my guts to this grumpy stranger.
I’d worked too hard for too long to be strong, to hide my vulnerabilities so no one could ever exploit them again.
Yet I couldn’t stop. “He’s eloping again.
Bolting. Regressing in some of his progress,” I admitted, shaking my head.
“It’s the move and all the uncertainty. I thought I was prepared for it, but…
” The weight I always carried on my shoulders grew.
He studied me intently, his head slightly tilted. It was unnerving, being the focus of his scrutiny. “I should have been watching more closely.”
That was like a blow to the solar plexus. I did not need his help.
“If it helps at all,” he went on, “he was very polite and curious.”
Shrugging, I lied. “That kind of helps.”
He continued surveying me. Not in a creepy way, but like he was cataloging every flaw and strategizing about how best to exploit my weaknesses.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t want to overstep. But do you have any help? Seems like you’ve got your hands full.”
There wasn’t a hint of judgment. No pity. Just logistics. This man seemed to speak only in practicalities.
And between one breath and the next, any charitable feelings I’d held for him crumbled into dust. Long-simmering rage bubbled up inside me again, its target the brick wall of a human standing in front of me.
“Excuse me?” I sneered. “That’s rude.”
He had the audacity to look … confused? His brows lowered and his lips tugged down. Like he hadn’t just insulted the core of my being.
“I work my ass off, thank you very much,” I snapped. “My kids are well cared for. And yes, things have been a bit chaotic, but I’ve got it under control.” The words poured out, years’ worth of trauma unloaded on him.
He held his large, rough hands up in surrender. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“Yes you did.” I took a step forward, relishing the power that came with having this big, strong man on the defensive. “What’s your problem? You hate women?”
He shook his head. “Of course not. I’m just.” He took a step back and smoothed his hand over his beard, his eyes darting to one side. Even his dog was staring at him like he’d royally fucked up. “Um, I… Sorry. And well.” He took his hat off and ran his hands through his dark hair.
He really had the rugged thing going, not that I cared at all.
“I don’t have a problem,” he finally said. “I’ve got a farm to run.”
An annoyed huff escaped me. “I’m getting tired of this whole noble farmer bullshit,” I said. “Just admit it, you’re an ass.”
He swallowed, his throat working, his focus still locked on my face. I hated it.
And then he smiled.
A smile.
A fucking smile. Big and wide and toothy. And was that…? A dimple? Just one on the left side, barely visible through his beard.
My traitorous heart tripped over itself, and a warmth I hadn’t experienced in years bloomed low in my belly.
Then he laughed. A deep laugh that in other circumstances would be annoyingly sexy, making my damn knees wobble.
“I live to please, Matchstick.”
All the pleasant sensations vanished and my spine snapped straight. “What did you call me?”
He laughed again, motherfucker. “Matchstick. Small. Dangerous. One spark and you’ll light the place up. A lot of power in a tiny package.”
I scowled. Was that an insult? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Because I was kind of flattered. Not that I’d admit it. And I definitely didn’t need this grumpy ass giving me a nickname.
“We’re not friends,” I groused, trying to fend off the little thrill that zipped through me.
“Oh, I know.” The words were lighter than any he’d spoken to me since we met.
A giggle bubbled up inside me, but I choked it back. It was a miracle, really.
I was tired. It was a million degrees outside. And we both had better things to do than stare at each other in the driveway.
“I’d love to hate you,” I told him, “but this house is unfairly beautiful. And the tub is magnificent. I’ll give you that. You hired a great interior designer.”
He crossed his arms, which only made him look beefier. “Hate to burst your bubble, but I chose everything myself. Every single detail.”
“Well,” I huffed, possibly more annoyed by that than anything else he’d said to me. “Then I like it less now.”
The corner of his lips twitched.
Shit. If I had to experience his damn dimple again, I was done.
So I nodded firmly, keeping my tone serious. “Yup. I hate that tub.”
“You love the tub.”
“Fuck off.”
With his head tipped back, he barked out a laugh. “Gladly. Can I go back to my job now? Are you done with your rage apology yet?”
The absurdity of this situation nearly took me out at the knees. I needed to go do yoga or something. All the pressure must have been getting to me.
But instead, I continued to poke this bear. Because though I hated to admit it, it was fun. And the bear had that dimple.
“It’s a wonder there’s no Mrs. Maple Tree in this place. What with your sparkling personality.”
His smile only grew.
“You must be fighting the ladies off with sticks, or …” I trailed off. “Pine cones or whatever country shit you’re into.”
“You could not handle what I’m into.”
A confusing mix of irritation and intrigue hit me. I cleared my throat. “Good. You should go now.”
“Great. Keep your kids away from dangerous equipment please.”
“Excellent,” I gritted out. “Don’t question my parenting again. Ever.”
“Perfect. Distance works for me.”
“I look forward to rarely interacting with you.”
We stood face to face for a beat too long, neither of us moving. Like maybe we’d just agreed to the wrong solution, and we knew it. And then he tipped his hat and started walking away, the dog trailing after him.