Sunday, April 2nd #3
I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and index finger. “God, Morai, you’re such a meddler.”
“Baby boy, I have been on this earth quite a bit longer than you. I have a very unique perspective, especially when it comes to you. And my meddling, so far, has done you how much harm?”
“…None,” I grit out.
“Exactly. Trust me when I tell you that Cat and Miranda need this. It’s clear to me that both girls care about you deeply. Each knows you in a way the other doesn’t, and I think this will help ease some of Cat’s… worries,” she says meaningfully.
My brow creases. I get the distinct impression my grandma knows, or at least suspects, that I… slipped… a couple of days ago. She probably suspected as much when I came back from Miranda’s cabin in the middle of the damn night, but that’s not the point right now.
“When did you send them out?” I ask, pulling my phone from my back pocket.
She crosses her arms, popping one hip out. “They left at around ten.”
I start to dial Cat’s number, then think better of it and dial Miranda’s instead. Straight to voicemail. Damn it.
“See?” I hold up my phone like I just won some sort of twisted game. “No answer. One’s probably dead while the other’s on the run. And you know what’s worse? I couldn’t tell you which one’s which.”
I’m obviously making an idiot of myself because my grandma starts to laugh. It doesn’t exactly make me feel better.
“Oh baby boy,” she says, and pats my cheek. “You worry too much.”
***
Fuck yeah, I worry. And for good fucking reason. Miranda and Cat? Together? After everything?
I try Miranda’s phone twice more, then muster up the courage and dial Cat’s number. Gotta admit, I listen to her entire voicemail greeting before hanging up, soaking in her voice like drops off water after days in the desert. I’m fucking pathetic.
I go about my afternoon work dutifully. I show Shane and Tori the literal and figurative ropes, though Tori mostly gets distracted by the calves and foals while Shane helps me fence off a section of pasture.
It’s past four. Tori went down for a nap—she’s clearly not used to running on minimal sleep like Shane and me—while my best friend is next to me, helping me clean the tack. I’ve always loved the smell of conditioned leather.
“The contractor said construction should only take a week,” Shane says about his plan to reconstruct the small stage at the back of Murphy’s. It’s been his latest passion project.
“When are they coming in to do that, though? I doubt you want a construction crew wrecking the place while you’re serving food.”
He nods. “They’re coming at night. After we close, they’ll work for a few hours, then shut it all down before we open again. We’ll wall off that back section temporarily.”
“How much will that cut capacity?” I run the waxy cloth over the stirrups, wiping away excess conditioner.
“Four booths and two tables, so thirty-six fewer seats.”
“Not bad.” I nod. “They starting Monday? Try to wrap it by Friday?” Weekends at Murphy’s are always packed. I know Shane doesn’t want to touch that cash flow.
“That’s the plan.”
The distant rumble of an engine cuts through the barn, and Shane’s voice fades when I catch a flash of cherry red out the open doors.
Cat and Miranda are back.
I hoist my saddle back on the rack, then turn to Shane, my damn heart thundering in my chest like I’m about to face off with that wildcat again. Different kind of Cat this time.
He takes one look at me and just nods, smiling like he already knows what I’m about to do. “You gonna stand there, or fix what’s broken?”
I blink. “Did you just quote… me?”
He grins, shrugs, and goes back to polishing.
I walk out of the barn slowly, listening. There’s the slam of a truck door. Then another. Footsteps in the dirt—light, but not quiet. I can tell who’s who. Heavy boots clomping? Miranda. The soft pad of well-worn chucks? Cat.
I step into the sunlight and stop short when I see them, standing by the tailgate of Miranda’s truck maybe twenty feet off.
I need to gauge what I’m about to walk into, assess the threat level like I’ve done all my life.
It’s one of the many habits I haven’t been able to break in the year and a half since the end.
But honestly? I’m not sure anything could’ve prepared me for this. There’s Cat, standing by the open tailgate next to Miranda, and… they’re both… smiling? No, they’re giggling while each pulls a box laden with flowers off the truck bed.
I expected to walk into storm and was met with sunshine.
“I guess I’d appreciate a plant over a flower,” Cat says, light and airy. “Flowers have a certain expiration date because they’ve been separated from their roots. It’s kind of a horrible gift, if you think about it.”
Miranda nods. “Yep. Flowers die. What a terrible idea. ‘Hey, here’s something pretty you can watch wither away,’” she says, mimicking a dude’s voice.
She sets her box down and pauses, hands on her hips. “You know what? I’ve never actually gotten flowers.”
“Me neither.”
Inwardly, I cringe. Cat’s right—at least when it comes to us.
I’ve never gotten her flowers. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing, now that I know how she feels about them…
but still. Why didn’t I ever ask? Probably because I assumed all girls like flowers.
And yet, I never even gave her that. And now, maybe I never will.
For a moment, panic floods my chest. What does Cat actually like?
Have I ever really taken the time to find out?
Or have I just been so wrapped up in my own shit that I’ve spent our whole relationship stringing her along?
Have I ever actually shown her how much she means to me?
That I’d rather take the hit myself than let her hurt, especially if I’m the one who caused it?
I close my eyes, their voices drifting over on a breeze, and I think.
She loves sunsets. Especially at Shane’s mom’s beach house, when the sky turns a burnt orange and the ocean looks like it’s on fire.
She loves all things tiny—puppies, kittens, baby penguins…
raccoons in clothes, for some reason. Her laugh is the best thing I’ve ever heard, especially when she really loses it, when she’s all breathless and squeaking.
It’s so fucking cute that I can’t help but laugh right along with her even when the thing she’s laughing about isn’t actually that funny.
She’s had the same pair of red chucks for years, has glued the sole on the right one twice now. She refuses to toss them because she hates breaking in new shoes. Blisters.
She likes strawberry ice cream and fuzzy socks. She hates being cold, likes her pillows medium-fluffy, and when she’s sad, she orders a caramel macchiato with extra whip at the bottom of the cup.
I wonder how many of those she’s had to have since I shattered her heart.
That last thought hits me hard enough to finally get my feet moving.
The dirt crunches under my boots, causing Cat’s and Miranda’s heads to turn to me.
“Hey there, Rony,” Miranda says, but I only have eyes for Cat.
She stands there, that box with flowers still in her hands.
“Would it be okay if we talked?” I ask her.
She raises her eyebrows, something hopeful flashing across her beautiful face. “Now?”
I nod. “Yeah. Now.”
I don’t know what happened between them during their six hours of forced proximity, but Cat glances at Miranda like she’s looking for… what? Permission? Encouragement? Not sure which or why she’d need either, especially from Miranda.
But Miranda grins and says, “Go ahead, I got this. I’ll just grab Daddy Soult to come help me move this stuff. Or maybe Stevie… or both,” she says, obviously for my damn benefit.
I don’t acknowledge her statement. I reach for Cat’s hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, then lead her to my truck parked beside Miranda’s.
I open the door for her and watch as she climbs in—allowing myself a quick glance at her perfect ass before closing the door behind her and heading to the driver’s side.
I know exactly where I’m taking her: the one place that’s always been my retreat, my hideout from the world. Somewhere we’ll have the privacy I need to finally unpack everything.
Cat
I keep wanting to reach for Ronan’s hand as we rumble along a narrow dirt path into a thicket of trees.
Back home, back when we were us, it was my favorite way of driving.
Ronan in the driver’s seat of his Mustang, my hand on his shifter, his hand over mine.
But I don’t reach for him now. I just fold my hands tightly between my knees, keeping them from even twitching in his direction.
We aren’t who we used to be only months ago. I hate how that feels. How my body wishes to bend in his direction, to answer the silent call to be in his arms, yet how much it feels like we’re strangers again, separated by a cavernous divide.
The air is thick between us, filled with tension, yet so much familiarity.
I conspicuously inhale his scent, glance at his gorgeous profile.
The past two months have done nothing to dull my love for him.
If anything, his absence from my daily life, though definitely not my thoughts, just made me long for him more.
“Sooo,” he says, eyes still locked on the barely-there path ahead. “How was your day?” His voice is careful. I bet he lost his mind when he found out his grandma sent me off with Miranda. I’d have done the same if it were him on some random trip with… Adam.
I give him a small smile. “Pretty good.”
His eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Randi and I had a chance to talk a little bit.”
He swallows. His green eyes flick to mine for a single heartbeat, and it looks like he wants to say something. But he just nods, not prying. Not yet, anyway.
Just then, Ronan stops the truck—and I gasp.