Seventeen
Tait
When we finally pull up to the main house, I find myself easily agreeing to come over for breakfast again tomorrow. I don’t recall actually buying anything in terms of breakfast foods, anyway… I internally shake my head at myself.
When I pull up to my cabin, I note another truck parked out front. Henry’s truck not in front of his, so I can’t help but wonder?
As soon as I park, though, I notice Charlie on the porch. He stands abruptly from the rocking chair and bolts down the stairs a bit clumsily.
“I went and grabbed these fans from my mom’s place so that you’re more comfortable during this heat wave we’ve got rolling in.”
“Oh. Thank you. Won’t the eighty-something-year-old woman probably need them more, though?” I say, letting a smile pull up my lips .
He laughs as he grabs a few of my grocery bags. “No, she shouldn’t. Her deal with Satan means he keeps her core temperature regular.” I raise an eyebrow at him but can’t stop a small laugh. “ And, we installed central heat and air in her place when it was renovated ten years or so ago. Figured we’d get a lot more years out of her if we did,” he adds. “She threw a fit at the time. Said all these places needed was heat—never AC, and not even heat since she always heated her place with the wood stove. And she built her own fires, chopped her own wood, yada yada. She must not think we notice that she hasn’t had a wood pile there since.”
“Or that summers have gotten longer and hotter?”
“Something like that, yeah. But, summers aren’t usually this hot even still, so the need for central air is rare. Global warming and all that.” He looks at me apologetically.
“No worries, my place in Tahoe doesn’t have AC. Actually, the majority of houses don’t there, either.”
“I trust that everything else here is nice and comfortable, though?” he asks.
“Yeah, absolutely. It’s a nice place,” I say, meaning it.
“Henry did a great job doing the right updates to the old place and building this to match. The plan was to do two more for other guest ranchers, but I think it works best like this.”
“Henry built this?”
“Yep. We all helped a bit, but he’s the one who was able to translate all the old plans to a new reality. Guy’s a bit of a savant, actually.”
Unsure why, some defensive feeling crawls into my chest. I hope they really do know how lucky they are to have good help like Henry. And I hope they don’t take advantage of him. Building something on someone else’s property with no chance for his own profit seems like too much of a stretch to me.…
“Okay, well, I’ll just bring these inside for you, then,” he says.
I grab the last of the groceries and set them in the kitchen, only to find Charlie still shifting on his feet, a fan held at either side.
“Tait. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you right away, and for—earlier. I’m sorry for a lot of things.”
I give it a second before responding, admittedly enjoying his nerves again. Not sure what that says about me, but I’m also not dissecting it much further.
“It’s okay. This is all… a lot. And honestly, I’m not dying to hash it out quite yet either. As much as I realize that we’ll probably have to get it over with.”
He lets out a sigh and sets down the fans. “I don’t want you to think that I’m upset that you’re here, but I just have to ask, Tait. Why now?”
“What do you mean?”
“I just mean… Well, is there any specific reason that prompted you to come out here, now ?”
Ah. There it is. The confirmation I’ve been waiting on; that this whole welcome act is not quite as genuine as they’d have me think. “You mean besides the job that hired me? I guess I don’t understand what you’re getting at Charlie.”
He flinches at his name, but I’m not sure what else he expected. To be called Dad? I think the fuck not.
“Okay, okay. I just—I had to ask,” he says lamely.
No he didn’t .
“Who do I need to get in touch with to discuss the scope of work and locations I should stick to?”
He regards me for a second, but accepts my redirect. “Henry has the production schedule and can show you around until cast and crew start showing up.”
I nod in thanks and head back in, not sparing him another glance.
A while after he leaves and after I’ve nibbled on a few of the grocery items I was most excited (and surprised) to come across, I email Fletcher and his assistant and decide to go ahead and CC Gemma so that she is updated, too. Isabel quickly sends me the appropriate expense report forms along with the insurance forms to fill out. I fill them out immediately and knock them off of my to-do list.
Gemma replies directly, and almost immediately.
Taitum. I have some ideas for you to focus on. I think they’ll be good jumping off points. I plan to be abstract enough, but I’d really like to know the family’s history on the ranch to relate it to the story plot. I’d like photography of more of the place in action, rather than just the scenery. The people, specifically, in action, doing everyday things. I’m struggling through a block on character development and deciding “who” I may be missing… Help me find them?
Thank you, dear girl,
～G
I put my head in my hands and feel the dread morph into something else that crawls beneath my skin, a monster trying to take hold. The idea of putting in extra effort to get to know anyone, when they never wanted to know me, fills me with helpless rage. I need to find the divider in my brain that categorizes this as work, the one that might help me separate my own personal emotions about this place and these people. This is what I do—it’s what I’ve done for every single one of these types of assignments.
Capturing pictures of an ultra-modern mansion in the middle of a forest—something so cold-looking and devoid of life, surrounded by nature. Or photographing an Italian grandmother handmaking her pasta with three generations of women alongside; hands lined up in succession of worn and gnarled, to young and smooth. Sending those photographs with a summary of the conversations that took place during that day in the kitchen. I find the juxtaposition between the laborious work, the time-worn utensils, and the bubbling life that a menial task brings out in everyone.
I just need to get enough material here, and do it quickly. Whatever it takes to get this done, to get me back home and to the life I’ve worked hard to make my own. Because the resolve I have here is slipping. And why open myself up to this, now? Why open myself up to wondering what life would have been, when it’s clear that they never worried or wondered?
Before that train of thought gets away from me, I throw on my headphones and change into some workout shorts and set out to get a nice long jog in so I can mentally map out a plan. I start out running circles around the pond since I’m not interested in breaking an ankle on any of the other terrain.
On my third lap, Henry opens his door and Belle comes out and jogs alongside me. I eventually lose track of how many circles I run, the heat stifling.
I even forget that Henry is sitting on his porch, watching us. I definitely don’t pick up speed whenever we are passing him, or try to remember my form, nor do I try to not appear winded and ready to quit… I am definitely doing all of that. What is wrong with me?
“Dinner!” he shouts, and Belle happily picks up speed and bounds for the house. I actually have worked myself into exhaustion, though, emotions replaced with the need to catch my breath. I slow to a walk.
“You too, if you’re interested?” Henry calls down to me. I look down at myself, covered in sweat and dust.
“I’m gross, but thank you.”
“You’re not, and it’s already after six, and whatever concoction you planned to throw together would probably take hours based off what you bought earlier. It’s up to you, but I’ve got steaks and salad.”
My mouth waters.
And since I need to go over my newly hatched plan of attack with him anyway…
I can justify it.
He sees me change directions to the stairs and throws me one of those smiles again. I’m sure I’m already red with exertion, but I feel the heat flood my face further. I’m—the warm-blooded female in me, that is—just a sucker for a good contradiction. And those stupid dimples on his otherwise rugged face are what make my body react. It’s a reflex. Like seeing cute, cuddly Jim from the office as rugged, smokeshow Jack Ryan. Eclipsing these images together is… effective. He looks freshly showered, in jeans and barefoot, with a white T-shirt on that once again shows off the nicest arms on a man that I’ve ever seen… a vein snakes the expanse of his left one, and my fingers practically itch with the desire to glide down it, to push on it and slide, feeling how much the flesh might give beneath my touch.
I take another appraising look down at myself when he turns to head inside. I don’t sweat cute, and the combination of the heat and the desire to run the anxiety out have resulted in a good mess. I do a quick, conspicuous nose swipe towards my shoulder and send up a prayer of thanks that I at least put on deodorant.
I take off my shoes and peel off the sweaty socks, leaving them outside on the porch. His house is mercifully cooler, but all I see is one ceiling fan. He’s got music playing from somewhere, the smells from the grill out back drifting in and making my mouth water even more.
“How is your place so much cooler?” I ask, which makes him wince apologetically.
“I installed an HVAC system in this one a few years back.” Damn. Lucky.
“I’m going to go wash up real quick,” I tell him, and he nods, grabbing two beers from the fridge and tipping one my way in offering.
“Sure,” I say before I pad off to the bathroom.
The temptation to stay in the bathroom of dreams is immediately real, but I hear Grady’s voice through the door.
“I rang Tait’s doorbell a couple times to bring her some of Em’s cookies. I forgot about the Diana Ross by the way—and I forgot how funny Gretchen thought she was—sorry, anywhoooo, Tait didn’t answer but the truck’s there.”
“She’s here.”
“Ooh, I see. Interrupting date night? ”
“What? No.”
“You know, you can date. Everyone knows that you go off the ranch and get laid once a month. Since we never meet any of these lucky gals I’m guessing they’re one-offs.”
I can practically feel Henry’s glare through the door, even when it’s not directed at me.
“Alright, alright. I’m just saying is all.”
I choose that moment to head out and feign mild surprise at seeing Grady.
“Oh, Tait! Hey, you look… sweaty. Been exerting yourself?” Grady says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
Henry sets down the knife that he’s using to chop up vegetables with an exasperated sigh and throws Grady another look. I brush past it.
“Did I overhear something about cookies?”
“Ohhh yes. These are Em’s BTS cookies—just wait until you try one.”
“BTS? Like, the band?”
“Better Than Sex—but, color me impressed.”
“Ahhh, that makes more sense. And sounds like her.” I laugh before I grab one and take a bite.
“Holy shit,” I say, still chewing.
“Right?!” Grady says, nodding like he knows the taste-gasm happening in my mouth. “There’s something to do with brown butter and chocolate and oats. Henry’s the only other person in the family who she’s taught the recipe to.”
I turn around and frown at Henry, who shrugs at me innocently. For some reason he’s never struck me as a dessert kind of man. And imagining him using those biceps for baking makes my brain short circuit.
I inhale the rest of the cookie, a moan escaping me when I bite into a second .
A crash sounds from behind me and I turn to see Henry picking up a tray and some BBQ tools.
“Steaks should be ready. Don’t spoil your appetite,” he grumbles, annoyed, and then stalks out to the patio.
Grady throws me a conspiratorial look. “What is with you guys?”
“Nothing at all. The guy barely started being cordial to me.”
“Lies. You look at his face how I look at these cookies.”
“He’s like seven feet tall. I’m not even convinced that I’ve seen his face.”
“Uh-huh. Anyway. We typically convene down here on Wednesday nights for dinner and game night. You should join us while you’re here!”
“Who’s we?” I ask warily.
“Me, Emma, Lucy when she’s in town, Caleb when he’s not working. Sometimes Auntie LeighAnn. Wednesdays were always my mom and dad’s date night growing up.”
I nod and smile, grabbing my beer from the counter. It’s, again, an unidentifiable feeling imagining a family unit—one that I might’ve belonged to once—with traditions and game nights and marriages with date nights… noise and laughter and annoyance. Love and companionship… I shake it off quickly.
“What games?” I ask.
“Anything, really. We usually stick to cards. When it’s nice out we’ll do yard games. Tonight I’ve brought Yahtzee.”
Henry walks in with the steaks and lets out a groan.
“If you’re trying to get her to come back I would save Yahtzee for another time,” he says, setting down the food and grabbing another cookie. He manages to toss the whole thing back and there’s something explicit about it. My stomach dips.
“Yahtzee? Really?” The game that takes no skill whatsoever.
The game that takes no skill whatsoever is apparently the one that brings out the worst in everyone because Grady has won every round, and it’s clear that Henry and I both are hating it. Dinner was delicious—the cookies are all gone but one. The combination of full bellies, sugar highs, and mild buzzes have us all turning the volume and competition up.
“Where’s Mrs. Logan?” Henry asks Grady.
Grady looks down at his phone. “Huh. I guess she isn’t feeling great.” He continues to frown after he puts his phone away. “Okay! How about ‘Impossible Questions’ since Grandma can’t join us?” He then pivots, rubbing his palms together menacingly.
Henry grunts. “Grady, aren’t we too old for that game?”
“You know that we’re absolutely not. Okay, Tait, you up for a drinking game?”
“Ummm, sure? Anything beats Yahtzee,” I say with a shrug. Fucking Yahtzee, stupid, useless, mindless game.
Grady claps once before he gets up and goes to fetch something from the buffet, vibrating with excitement. Henry looks at me in a way that can only be described as “you asked for it” before Grady launches into his intro.
“The game is only fun if you are fun. It’s very similar to ‘Do or Drink,’ but with our own spin on it. The object is to ask an impossible question in one of three categories: ‘this or that,’ ‘yes or no,’ and ‘vote.’ You’ll draw a card and depending on the category, pick a person and a question that fits in that category. You have to come up with the impossible questions for ‘this or that’ and for ‘yes or no,’ but the ‘vote’ cards have pre-written dares on them. Example round.” He picks a card. “I’ll pretend this is a ‘this or that’ card. Henry, Belle or Murphy? You have five seconds.” He mock whispers over to me, “Murphy is his horse.”
“That’s not even—how am I supposed to pick?” Henry complains.
“Five seconds!!!” Grady shouts.
“They serve completely different purposes—”
“DRINK!!” Grady roars.
Henry throws me a wink, one I am very unprepared for—my hand actually clutches my chest before I cover it with a feigned scratch. Then he takes a long drag from his cocktail glass, licking his lower lip to catch an errant drop.
“See? Fun, right?!” Grady laughs at my expression, oblivious, but proceeds to line up fresh beers, and fills up three shot glasses with tequila… Good Lord.
“Also, terrifying,” I add. But the competitor in me doesn’t want to turn down the challenge. “‘Yes or no’ seems straightforward, but what’s ‘vote’?”
“If you draw a vote card,” Henry says, “you need to read it out loud, and immediately after say ‘shot’ or ‘vote.’ So, either take a shot yourself, or risk voting for someone at the table to do whatever is written on the card. If you—the person who drew the card—end up losing the vote, by everyone voting for you, you have to finish everyone’s drink at the table, and do the dare. If someone gets voted for and does the dare, everyone else drinks. Keep in mind that Grady wrote these when he was a teenager. ”
“When I was in love with you, apparently didn’t care about our extremely distant shared lineage, and tried to invent ways to make you kiss me and change your entire sexuality. See?” He hands me the cards he retrieved from a cupboard in Henry’s bar area. “I made copies and laminated them for all the regulars.”
“As we’ve gotten older and wiser, we usually just take the shot,” Henry offers, trying to comfort me as I look over the cards.
“‘Kiss the person to your left,’ ‘streak around the house three times,’ ‘send a dick pic to someone at the table’?! You play this with your family members?!” I laugh, horrified.
“We have varying versions, okay?” Grady explains. “Note that the kiss doesn’t say where or with tongue or anything, and most are up for interpretation if you’re smart.” He taps his temple. “I once sent Grandma a picture of Dick Cheney when I pulled that card. This version at Henry’s place is admittedly the nastier, less family-friendly one because he never plays. The one we keep in the bunkhouse is by far the worst, though.” He beams with pride.
I look across the table at Henry again who gives me a challenging, single brow lift. So much communication from that face, with so few words.
“Let’s play,” I say.
“I’ll go first,” he replies, without breaking eye contact.
He draws and seems to exhale when he reads the card. “This or that. Tait. California or Idaho?”
It’s not as easy as I make it sound, but I quickly respond. “California, duh.”
“BOOOOOO!!!!” they both shout at me simultaneously. “DRINK!” Again, in unison .
“What?! I answered in less than five seconds!” I slam my fist down on the table before I can rein myself in, indignant.
“Oh, did we forget that part? If we don’t like your question or your answer, you have to drink. So, don’t hold back.” Henry tosses his head back and laughs, his hand in the middle of his ribs, delighted at my display.
Uh-oh.