Chapter 5
Remi
Auggie: Are you kidding me?
I raise a brow at the text from my friend before wiping the dirt off my hand and texting back.
Me: Often, yes. What are we talking about?
Auggie: My brother.
Auggie: Visiting you, apparently.
Auggie: What the hell?
Well, then. I guess August and Benson finally had a chat.
Me: What part of that is pissing you off, exactly?
Auggie: Uh… How about the fact that you didn’t say a goddamn word to me about it? You’re my friend, not his.
I groan before sending a voice text. “I know you’ve already read that back and realized how ridiculous you sound. But in case you need the assurance, me talking to your brother doesn’t mean you and I are breaking up.”
My CI beeps to notify me of a new text.
Auggie: You’re a shit. I’m coming over.
A smile quirks my lips as I return my phone to my pocket, nearly done with work for the afternoon.
I’ll swing through once more in a few hours to feed all the animals their evening meals, but for now, I put away my tools, sweep up the excess straw in the hallway, and say a quick goodbye to the horses inside the stables.
Starlight, Jackson’s horse, and Prairie are outside in one of the paddocks, playing tentatively in the snow.
I snort as Prairie kicks her muzzle through the fresh flakes on the ground before shaking her head vigorously to get rid of the moisture.
Both horses are wearing blankets to keep them warm, and neither looks ready to head inside.
Winter on the ranch is beautiful, I’ll admit. The ground is covered in glittering white, and the pine branches look like crystals. Even so, I’ll be glad once spring arrives, when the very earth comes alive and I won’t have to wear so many layers to stay warm.
After shedding my cold-weather gear in the mudroom, I head upstairs for a shower. I’ve just changed into fresh clothes when my bedroom light flickers, announcing Auggie’s arrival, if I had to guess. The next second, I’m being tackled onto the bed.
“Fuck,” I mutter, Auggie’s arms around me like a cobra.
“Hug me back,” he mouths, looking disgruntled.
Amused despite myself, I wrap my arms around him. Neither of us says anything for a minute, not with our hands out of commission and my CI sitting on the nightstand beside us. But I don’t mind. Clearly, August needed to be crushed to remember I still care for him.
Finally, he shuffles back, sitting up on my bed and lifting his hands. Auggie is fluent in ASL, the only person outside my family who can sign at the same speed as me. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
I let out a soft sigh before responding in kind. ‘You make it sound like I was involved in espionage. He just…showed up yesterday. And he seemed kind of lost. I showed him around. No big deal.’
Auggie frowns. ‘Yesterday? He said he was here today.’
I wince. Oops? ‘Today, too.’
My friend’s face does a dramatic one-eighty. He flops back on my bed, hands and arms still moving despite his supine position. ‘You’re totally going to drop me for him. What the hell, Remi? He’s so old.’
He emphasizes the word old with a wrinkled nose, his entire delivery over the top and 100 percent August.
I clear my throat to stop myself from either laughing or arguing that Benson isn’t old. He’s just…mature. And really fucking fine.
I don’t think my friend would appreciate learning about that particular opinion right now. Maybe not ever.
“Auggie,” I say, flicking his shoulder. He looks my way, and I lift my hands, moving deliberately and slowly so he gets the point. ‘We won’t stop being friends just because I hang out with your brother.’
There goes his nose again. ‘Is it going to keep happening?’
I shrug.
‘Why?’ he asks despondently.
I shrug again. ‘He’s nice. And he likes being here. Why not?’
Auggie looks utterly bewildered. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Do you need to?’ I question.
He dips his fist in a nod, his expression making his yes an, ‘Uh, duh.’
I snort, and Auggie closes his eyes, appearing as if he might be groaning.
Finally, he lifts his hand. His, ‘I love you,’ is tempered somewhat by the subsequent, ‘Asshole.’
I bark a laugh before returning the sentiment, asshole-free, and smacking his face with a pillow. I’m unsurprised when he flips me off.
He brushes the pillow aside before a frown pulls at his mouth. ‘Wait… Back up. My brother is nice to you?’
I manage not to roll my eyes, but the impulse is strong. ‘He’d be nice to you, too, if you gave him the chance.’
Auggie’s face screws up. ‘That doesn’t sound right. At least tell me he’s not getting in the way?’
‘No, he’s…helpful.’
‘This is so weird,’ Auggie responds, shaking his head slightly. ‘You and my brother.’
My pulse takes off at his phrasing, a fact I dutifully ignore. I give Auggie’s chest a little slap. ‘You staying for a while?’
‘Yeah. Want to play video games?’
He pulls a handheld gaming device out of his cargo pocket, and I huff a laugh. We play until the dinner hour begins, and then I grab both of us plates of food to eat upstairs. Auggie heads home when it’s time for me to feed the animals.
He’s never enjoyed them the same way his brother does.
As I’m closing up the feed room in the petting-farm barn, I can’t help but remember Benson’s assertion that the organization in here could be vastly improved. It honestly never crossed my mind, but I do see his point.
Hopefully, maybe, he’ll stick around long enough to fix it.
Benson doesn’t come back the next day. I try not to take it personally, knowing there’s a million and one reasons that could account for him not returning. But my workday is a little quieter in a way I don’t care for.
The day after that is the same. Relative solitude. No Benson.
It’s on the third day, as I’m about to head in for lunch, that I get a text.
Ben: Do you have a vet on the ranch?
My eyebrows pop up.
Me: No, we don’t. Why?
Ben: I need a vet.
I nearly snort at that answer, which doesn’t really answer anything at all, before concern takes over.
Me: There’s an emergency vet one town over. What’s going on?
Ben: Mouse.
I stare at my phone screen for a minute, waiting for that to make sense or for more information to come. When none does, I find myself typing out another text.
Me: Want company?
My heart beats swiftly as I wait for a response.
Ben: Don’t you have work?
Me: I can take an hour or two. Want me to pick you up? I know where the vet’s office is.
Ben: OK.
With a bounce in my step, I make my way inside the ranch house to grab my truck keys and wallet.
Ash catches my eye as I pass. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why you’re grinning like that?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ll be back soon.”
“M’kay,” Ash hums, failing to hide his amusement.
Switching out my work boots for a cleaner pair, I head out the door and get in my truck.
The Harpers’ house is fifteen minutes away from the ranch, in an area a little more densely populated.
I’ve always thought of the neighborhood as cute, and it’s where I came as a kid for trick-or-treating on Halloween.
Auggie and I could get more candy on the streets around his home than mine, where the nearest neighbor is a good half mile away.
August’s car is absent when I park in the driveway. I have no doubt both he and Louise are at the sandwich shop. But I don’t even have to knock to find Benson.
He’s sitting on the steps of the porch, a shoebox on his lap. He stands and makes his way over, getting into the passenger side of my truck.
“So…when you said a mouse,” I start, looking down at the shoebox.
Benson lifts the lid halfway off with gloved hands, giving me a peek of what’s inside. There’s a rag towel, set carefully along the bottom of the box. A small pile of sunflower seeds.
And a field mouse.
“I think her leg is broken,” Benson says, his eyes flicking to the side of my head to check for my CI. Even spotting the processor tucked over my ear, he tugs a glove off and fingerspells, ‘Leg.’
I glance more carefully at the field mouse, a tiny brown thing whose whiskers are shaking madly as she scents the air. I wince as I see her hind leg, very clearly at an angle it shouldn’t be.
Benson’s voice is small, quiet enough I have to watch his lips carefully to catch the words. “I know it’s only a mouse, but I found her in the backyard, and I just… I didn’t want to leave her like that. You probably think I’m ridiculous.”
“I don’t,” I tell him. I think he’s ridiculously cute. And kind. And has a softer heart than I realized. “I think it’s sweet, Ben. Buckle in. The vet is about thirty minutes away.”
Benson nods, securing his seat belt before removing his other glove. He slides his beanie off, too, the cab of the truck plenty warm.
Benson says something as we hit the turn off his street, but I only catch thank and come.
“Can you speak louder if I’m driving?” I ask him. “I can’t watch your mouth, and there’s a lot of noise on the road.”
“Sorry,” Benson says more clearly. “Thank you for this. You didn’t have to come.”
“I don’t mind,” I tell him. Admitting I was eager to see him is far too revealing, so I keep that part to myself.
Benson must have a similar train of thought, however, because he says, “Sorry I haven’t been back to the ranch.”
I glance his way quickly, finding him staring down at the closed shoebox.
He’s worrying the edge with his fingers, his cheeks rosy from sitting out in the cold while he waited for me.
Maybe out of guilt, too. I refocus on the road.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. Like I said, you’re under no obligation to help out.
It’s fine if you don’t want to come back. ”
“I do,” he says hastily. “But I’m trying… I…”
In my peripheral vision, I can see Benson’s hand ball into a fist once, twice, before relaxing against the shoebox.
“Can I explain later? I don’t want to shout it.”
I huff a small laugh, glancing his way again. “Yeah. Of course. Later.”
He nods once, and we lapse into silence, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable in the least. I turn the radio on for Benson before adjusting my CI volume down, muting everything into a softer jumble of noise.
As soon as I park at the vet’s office, Benson slips out of the truck. His steps are hurried as he approaches the building, but he waits for me to join him before opening the door. I readjust my volume in time to register a couple dogs barking and a phone ringing.
Benson holds the shoebox to his abdomen as we wait for one of the receptionists to help us. Finally, someone is freed up, waving us over.
“Hi there. Do you have an appointment?”
“Uh, no,” Benson answers, his eyes finding mine before he lifts the shoebox up for the receptionist to see. “I found an injured mouse? I was hoping you could help fix her up.”
I’m not surprised when the receptionist’s eyes go big and soft. She stands from her seat and leans across the counter, lifting the lid of the box to look inside. “Aww. What a cutie. Let me see what our vets’ schedules look like. We should be able to fit you in.”
Benson heaves out a relieved breath. “Thank you.”
“Of course. Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll call you up when someone is available. Your name?”
“Benson Harper.”
She nods, giving Benson a big smile before passing over a clipboard. “Fill out this paperwork while you wait. We’ll be with you soon.”
Benson, looking mildly shell-shocked, heads to the corner of the waiting room where there are available seats.
I sit in the chair next to him, holding my hands out to take the shoebox.
He shoots me a one-handed, ‘Thanks,’ before tugging the pen out of the clipboard clasp and staring at the paperwork.
“Okay?” I check.
He glances over at me, eyes still wide. “She doesn’t even have a name, Remi. How am I supposed to fill this out?”
“The best you can,” I answer, a smile quirking my lips at the serious set of Benson’s brows. “You could always give her a name.” When his eyes widen in further panic, I add a quick, “Or not. Just skip it.”
Blowing out a breath, Benson clicks the top of the pen and starts to fill out the form. I check on the field mouse, noticing a soaked sponge at the corner of the shoebox I didn’t see before. Something warm and tight takes up residence in my chest.
He made sure she had access to water.
The mouse looks about as shell-shocked as Benson, her big black eyes blinking and her chest moving quickly with her breaths. Not wanting to stress the poor thing out any more than necessary, I slip the lid back on the box and let her be.
Jackson has always called me a bleeding heart, despite being a secret softie himself under all his gruff. But I never bothered to refute his claim because I know it to be true. I don’t like seeing anyone, person or animal, hurting.
There aren’t many people that would feel compelled to look twice at an injured mouse. And I understand—I do. On a logistical level, they’re considered pests. They can carry disease and transmit illness, which is why most people take active measures to keep them out of their homes and barns.
But hearts don’t always follow rules of logic. And it’s easy to see it’s Benson’s heart responsible for us sitting in this waiting room.
All because of the tiniest brown field mouse. Because he saw her hurting and hurt, as well. And if I claimed that doesn’t make my own heart tumble further into trouble, well, I’d be lying to myself.
Benson heaves out a sigh that catches my attention. Flipping the papers on the clipboard back to the first page, he holds the pen above the name line. Finally, after what feels like a small eternity, he writes down five letters in a gently sloping scrawl.
Mouse.
Ah, fuck.
This is so, so much worse than I thought.