134. Courtney
Chapter 134
Courtney
“October fifth,” Sterling tells me.
“Oh, that’s…” My smile fades.
That was this month. A few days after I started.
Was that the day we got the new mattresses?
Time has been a blur since I got here, but I would’ve remembered if anyone said anything. I was definitely eating in the Food Hall by then.
And no one said anything.
Did anyone even know?
“It’s not a big deal, Cookie.” Sterling’s voice is soft.
He can probably read the emotions as they cross my features.
“Does anyone know?” I keep my voice just as soft.
“Don’t think so. No reason to.” He sounds like he means it. Unbothered.
But I… I don’t really have anyone who celebrates with me either—with the exception of my mom calling me each year. The one day I’m guaranteed a call, along with Christmas. So, I get it. I would give the same answer. And I’d mostly mean it.
But I was also mostly alone. Working by myself. Living alone.
Sterling, though, was surrounded on his birthday, by all of us, and no one said a thing.
Why does that feel so much worse?
“When’s your birthday?” Sterling asks me, breaking the silence.
“March twenty-third,” I answer.
“What’s your favorite color?”
The heaviness that was settling over me lifts. It’s such a silly question for one adult to ask another. But I kind of love it.
“Forest green.” It’s always been green, but I think my time living amid the pine trees has altered my answer. “What’s yours?”
“Light blue. Do you have any siblings?”
A small laugh bubbles out of me at the way he’s all over the place with these questions. “No. Just me and my mom. Never met my dad.” When his mouth twists, I realize it’s not really something people say casually. But it’s the truth. I know the man’s name. But he wanted nothing to do with my mom when she got pregnant, so I want nothing to do with him. Easy as that. “You have siblings?”
“Two pain-in-my-ass brothers. We don’t see each other too often. One’s in Denver, near where my mom lives now, and the other is out in California. And a dad I wish I didn’t know.” I feel anger coat my features, but Sterling waves me off, once again reading my thoughts. “He wasn’t abusive or any shit like that. Just worthless. In and out of our lives for the first handful of years until he up and moved out of state. Then we’d go years without hearing from him. Finally, one day, my mom stopped taking his calls, and that was that.”
“Sucks.” I pick up another cookie, then hold it out. “To shit dads.”
Sterling huffs out a laugh and taps his partially eaten cookie to mine. “To being better off without them.”
We take bites at the same time, savoring the sweets and the truth.
“So.” I lick the crumbs off my fingertips. “You said you built your house. Does that mean you helped design it?”
Sterling nods and tells me about the process. How he hired a builder and then an architect. Tells me about the layout he wanted, and what he would do differently now that he’s older, has more money, and has lived in the house for a while.
While we talk, we get under the covers.
I snuggle into Sterling’s side and place my head on that perfect spot between his chest and shoulder. And we keep talking.
He asks why I always wear my hair in braids as he gently drags his hand down one.
I tell him it’s for function, to keep my hair out of my face, and that it’s just become a habit.
He tells me he likes it.
I tell him I like his beard.
He asks me about Spike.
I explain how she’s my pet, and I love her.
He asks me if I know how much I talk out loud while I’m working.
I ask if he knows how much he scowls while he’s working.
We talk about all the other properties he owns, and I ask how the outhouses get cleaned.
He asks me how I feel about living in the mountains.
I tell him that I can communicate with bears now.
He gives me advice on what to do if I see one again.
I ask if he’s ever had pets.
He’s quiet for a moment before he tells me about the dog he had growing up.
His fingers trace circles on my arm as he talks about the lab mix his family adopted from the shelter.
His fingers still when he tells me how hard it was to put him down when he got old and frail.
I rub circles on his chest as I tell him how much I’d love a dog. How, if I had one, I’d want it to be one that sticks to my side all day.
He asks what breed of dog I’d want.
“I wouldn’t care.” I close my eyes, imagining it. “I just think it would feel good to save one from a cramped kennel. Give them a home where they could run around a bit.”
As I say it, I see the parallel. The way I want to help someone avoid the enclosed existence I’ve felt trapped in for far too long.
Sterling kisses the top of my head.
Then he does it again, with his arms tightening around me.
I press my lips together.
Then I blow out my breath and ask him what his favorite season is.
He tells me fall.
And when he asks me mine, I tell him spring .
Sterling explains what the winter is going to be like up here.
I promise him I’ll buy boots when I buy my jacket.
And I resist the urge to ask him if I’ll still be working here in January.
It’s a fair question. One I will eventually need an answer to, but asking about it right now feels wrong.
So I don’t bring it up.
Instead, we talk about how we both hate the holidays. How he avoids his family drama and chaos by working through them—either on real work outings or going out on trips with his bachelor friends.
I explain how I still talk to my mom, but it’s not often. And that I’ve rarely been able to afford to travel to see her. And how she claims it’s always too far to drive back just for one day .
I admit how much it hurt over the years. And how I’ve come to terms with it.
And then we keep talking.
Sterling tells me about the time he went rafting with his friends and nearly drowned as a teenager. How he got grounded for a month, and his mom made him eat brussels sprouts with every meal as added punishment.
“That’s actually pretty brilliant.” I smile against his chest
“Joke’s on her. By the end of the second week, I’d started liking them.”
“Seriously?”
I can feel him nod. “If she’d just given me plain steamed ones, I probably would’ve hated them the whole time. But she was eating them, too, and clearly got sick of having them plain. So she started roasting them with maple syrup or sautéing them in butter.” He rubs his hand over his stomach. “I need to ask Cook to make some soon.”
We talk more about food and getting in trouble.
Where I kept my head down in class, Sterling apparently got sent to the principal’s office on the regular.
We keep telling stories.
Keep tracing patterns on each other with our fingertips.
We keep sharing .
We make up for all the times we didn’t talk.
And when Sterling curses, pointing out that the sunrise is starting to glow around the curtains, I feel like I know him.
I feel like we’ve known each other for years.
I feel like I can call Sterling Black my friend.