12. Blair
12
BLAIR
" C ome on, you stubborn piece of—" I grunt, giving the winch another go.
"Piece of shit!" Mr. Johnson chimes in, his weathered face creased with frustration.
The tow truck's engine roars, straining against the suction of the earth.
"God dammit!" we both yell at the tractor. Mr. Johnson snorts and sets me to laughing too. When you're up to your knees in mud, what else are you supposed to do? We both had hissy fits, as my dad would call them, twenty minutes ago. At this point, it's gone past frustrating and into cartoon silly.
With a final heave and a wet sucking sound, the tractor breaks free. We both throw up our arms, cheering, mud-splattered, and grinning like idiots.
"That'll teach me to plow after a rainstorm," Mr. Johnson chuckles, wiping his brow.
I unhook the tow cable, my boots squelching in the muck. "At least it's out now. There's no more rain in the forecast, so you should be able to get back at it in a day or two."
Mr. Johnson nods, then takes a few sucking steps toward me. "Why don't you come in for supper, honey? Ann made her pot roast."
I hesitate for a moment, but only out of habit. These aren't strangers; they're practically family. "You know what? I'd love to. Maggie's at some school thing with Max, and I was planning on eating cereal." I like cereal a lot. But the sugary kind, my favorite kind, always leaves me with a headache. Maggie says I should just eat less of it, but who the hell can just have one bowl?
Psychopaths. That's who.
Inside, Mrs. Johnson fusses over us, tsking at our muddy clothes but smiling all the same. She's a farmer's wife. This isn't the first time she has mud-splattered company at her table. I do my best to clean up at the wash sink on the porch, but there's not much point. The mud's off my face and hands but I can't do much about the splatters everywhere else.
We settle at their round kitchen table, and Mrs. Johnson serves me up a more than generous helping of everything, and after a quick prayer, we all dig in. Dad and I used to pray before supper. We didn't go to church much, but that's one habit that hung around after grandpa died.
"This is so good," I moan, reminding myself to keep my shoulders back and not drop my head into the plate. If I'm really hungry, I tend to fall back into the habit of shoveling the food straight into my mouth from the edge of the plate.
Mind your manners , Dad always said. He cared a lot about manners, for me especially. I want people to get to know you, Blair. First impressions matter, honey. He was coming from a place of love, but still, it's hard not to think of yourself as wrong when you're being told everything about you, even the way you eat, isn't right.
"How's Maggie doing, dear?" Mrs. Johnson asks, dragging me back to the present. Her eyes are soft with concern.
The roast, tender and delicious just seconds ago, turns to ash in my mouth. "She's... hanging in there. Max keeps her spirits up."
They nod, understanding in their eyes. Maggie's been clear with everyone that the cancer's not gone, and she's got a ticking clock over her head. But she does it in a way that forces people to get on board. Like, how can I be sad if the dying woman isn't? I get she doesn't want to bring herself or anyone down, but it makes it hard for the rest of us to have an honest conversation about loss and grief.
We chat about lighter topics—town gossip, the upcoming spring festival, Mr. Johnson's prize-winning hens. It's comfortable and familiar, and exactly what I needed. One night to let someone take care of me, and to look across at two healthy people instead of being reminded of that fucking ticking clock the entire meal.
We linger over dessert, but I finally make my excuses. It's getting late, and I'm so full I'm afraid of falling asleep on the short ride home. Mrs. Johnson presses a Tupperware of leftovers into my hands. "For Maggie and Max," she insists.
Tucking it closer to my stomach, I pull her in for a quick hug. "Thank you," I whisper into her ear. Her arms tighten around me, just for a second. She gets I mean so much more than thank you for the meal. Thank you for the break. Thank you for the no-pressure conversation. Thank you for caring.
The drive back to town is dark and peaceful. I have to roll the windows down and crank the music to keep myself awake. I'm five miles out when I spot it—a sleek, expensive car nose-down in the ditch.
I pull over, more out of habit than anything else. Badger Falls might be small, but we take care of our own—and even the occasional stranger passing through. Because that beautiful car sure as fuck doesn't belong to anyone that lives here.
Just before I climb out of the tow truck, I grab the large wrench resting on the seat. Yeah, it comes in handy on the occasional job, but mostly it's for protection. Dad made sure I could defend myself, but he was always big on visual deterrents. If a six-foot-one tall woman built like a rugby player doesn't scare a bad guy away, then that same woman holding a two-foot-long, twenty-pound pipe wrench should do the job.
He was right. I've only had to use the wrench twice in the last twenty years. Both times were scary, and both times, I came out unharmed.
Can't say the same for the other guys.
Leaving the truck running, headlights lighting up the car, I call out, "What happened?"
A large figure steps away from the front of the car and climbs out of the ditch. When he straightens, my heart stops. The world tilts on its axis, and I nearly drop my wrench.
Ransom Kyle.
Yeah, I looked him up. But a headshot on a corporate website didn't do him justice. He looks different, yet achingly familiar. Older, of course, but still with that same confident set to his shoulders. What I assume is a very expensive suit sits perfectly, like he just finished a meeting, not crashed his car and climbed out of a ditch. There's a bit of mud on his black shoes; the rest of him is immaculate.
And here I am in crusty coveralls, splattered in mud from head to toe, half my hair falling out of my braid.
I've imagined this moment a thousand times, seeing him again after all these years. I've rehearsed everything I'd say, every biting word and accusation. I've even fantasized about slapping him across his perfect face, telling him to go straight to hell and never look back.
But I never, not once, imagined standing in front of him looking this pathetic, like I've been dragged through a swamp.
For a long, agonizing moment, we just stare at each other. I feel like I've been sucker-punched, all the air driven from my lungs in a single, painful whoosh. Ransom's eyes roam over me, taking in every detail of my disheveled appearance. His gaze is intense, unreadable, and I struggle to interpret the emotions flickering behind those familiar eyes. Is it disgust? Pity? Or something else entirely? The scrutiny makes me want to squirm, but I force myself to stand still, refusing to show any more weakness than I already have.
"Blair," he says, and his voice sends a shiver down my spine. "Of all the tow trucks in all the towns..."
I clench my fist, anger bubbling up to replace the shock. I like the anger. It feels a hell of a lot better than the alternative. "What the hell are you doing here, Ransom?"
One dark eyebrow wings up, and he casually tucks his hands in his pockets. "Oh, just out for a drive, dodging cows."
Had to be Harriet. That damn cow hasn't met a pasture she can't escape from. More than one person has been run off the road here. She's actually great for business. I peek into the ditch, but thankfully don't spot the body of a large, too smart-for-her-own-good dairy cow. Way to go, Harriet . "Out for a drive, huh? What a big fucking coincidence." I hate that he's toying with me. "What are you really doing here?"
Ransom runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache. "Why the fuck do you think I'm here, Blair? You sent a very large, nearly naked man to my place of work. You had to expect a reaction."
"Funny, your memory seems a little spotty. You've sent men to my place of work. You've been harassing me for too fucking long. So did I expect a reaction? Yeah, I did. I expected you to back the fuck off. I never expected you to come here. I never wanted you to come here. Honestly, on the list of things I don't want, seeing you ranks number one."
"What's number two?"
"A hot poker in my eye."
One dark brow wings up. "You'd rather lose your vision than see me."
I just stare at him, letting my non-answer be answer enough.
"Blair," he says softly, running his hand down the front of his suit. "I didn't come here to disturb your life, I swear. But you're being shortsighted. If you'd just listen to?—"
"No. You don't get my time or any more of my attention. Goodnight." I turn and head back to the truck.
There's a shocked bark of laughter. "You've got to be kidding me. My car's in the fucking ditch. You're not even going to pull me out?"
Turning back, I pin him with every bit of hate I hold in my heart. There's a lot there, and it's easier to access than those uncomfortable, painful feelings I live with. "I wouldn't spit on you if you were on fire."
Finally, I get a reaction. It's a small flinch, but it makes me feel a little better.
Ransom takes a step towards me, then seems to think better of it. "Blair, I know you're angry. You have every right to be. But I made a promise to your father?—"
"Don't," I cut him off, my voice sharp. "Don't you dare bring my dad into this."
He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay, okay. I'm sorry. Look, can we just... can we talk? Really talk?"
I want to say no. I want to get back in my truck and drive away, leaving him and all the complicated feelings he brings with him in my rearview mirror. But something in his eyes, a vulnerability I've rarely seen, makes me hesitate.
For a second.
Then I come to my senses.
"There's not a damn thing left to say. You were clear twenty-five years ago that you were done with this town and done with me. I believe the exact words you used were, 'I deserve more from life than you and this bumfuck town.'"
Another, bigger flinch. I don't know why. He's the one that said them. Why is he acting like he's actually hurt?
"I'm sorry I hurt you. It was the only—" Ransom runs his fingers through his hair, a nervous gesture I remember all too well. His shoulders slump as he takes a half-step toward me, and I automatically tighten my grip on my wrench. Am I going to beat him to death with it?
Probably not.
He freezes, glancing at my hand, then looks back at my face. "Just, I'm sorry." His hands clench and unclench at his sides, and I can see the muscle working in his jaw.
For years, I dreamed of him coming back and apologizing, taking back the hurtful things he said. I thought it would make everything better.
It doesn't. It's been too long. The pain's burrowed too deep into my bones for simple words to shake it loose.
But the words, too little, too late, do shake something else loose. Something hot and overpowering.
Rage.