Chapter 21
Your New Best Friend
Cole
I barge into the house, screen door slamming behind me with a sharp crack that echoes through the quiet night air, the wood frame rattling like it’s pissed too.
The warmth inside hits me, thick with the scent of meatloaf and fresh biscuits, garlic lingering heavy, making my stomach growl despite the knot in it.
I go into the dining room where everyone is sitting eating a late dinner because we just got back and we’re all starving.
“What the fuck, Maggie!?” I stand over her while she’s sitting at the table, voice low but sharp, my shadow falling across her plate. “Abby was here?”
“Back off, Cole,” Maggie says, standing up, shouting in my face. “I wasn’t the one who invited her. It was Nancy.”
“Nancy?” I turn, look at her. So does Maggie.
My dad looks surprised—worried, even. The room goes still, the only sound is the faint tick of the wall clock and the hum of the fridge, silverware paused mid-air.
My dad says really calmly, “Why was Abby over here, Nancy?”
Everyone is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Forks hover, eyes wide, the tension thick as molasses.
Nancy lets out a long exhale. “Oh my. I didn’t think it would cause all this.” She takes a sip of tea, the cup clinking softly against the saucer. “Her father is sick. He comes every Wednesday to get eggs. This week Abby came instead. That is allll.”
My heart is pounding out of my chest at the betrayal, blood rushing hot in my ears, fists clenched until my knuckles ache.
“I don’t want her or her father at this ranch ever again.” I look at dad and everyone sitting around.
That’s fucked up. Who knew about this? Everyone?
And behind my back? What the fuck!! I grab a six-pack out of the fridge—the cans ice-cold, condensation slick against my palm—and storm up to my room, boots thudding heavy on the stairs, each step vibrating through the old wood floors.
The hallway’s dim, shadows stretching long from the single bulb, air cooler up here, smelling faintly of dust and pine from the open window.
I slam the door shut, drop onto the bed—the mattress dipping under my weight, springs creaking—and pop a lid on a Coors. The hiss is sharp, foam bubbling cold as I take a long sip. The beer’s crisp, bitter, sliding down my throat like a temporary balm, but it doesn’t touch the fire in my chest.
The thought burns. Abby here, on my land, while I was gone.
The betrayal stings sharp, like salt in a fresh cut.
But Layla… She thinks that’s what I want?
Some ghost from the past? No. Layla is what I want.
That body, curves that drive me insane, soft and full, fitting against me like she was made for my hands.
Everything. Her laugh… bright, real, the kind that cuts through my bullshit and makes me feel lighter than I have in years.
Three knocks at my door—soft, hesitant. I look up, it’s Maggie. So I stand and switch positions—my back against the headboard, rough wood cool through my shirt. Maggie sits at the bottom of my bed, the mattress shifting under her weight.
She stares at me, eyes searching, like she’s reading every line on my face.
“I fucked it up, Maggie. Bad. I’ve done everything the wrong way. I should’ve asked her to go. Why didn’t I ask? Why didn’t I respond?”
The words tumble out, rough and raw, my throat tight. I crack open a beer—the pop echoing in the quiet room—and hand it to her.
She takes it, sips slow.
“No, you are. You’re a fucking idiot.” She leans forward. “You like her, Cole. More than like. You just don’t have the balls to say it.”
I shake my head, frustration boiling. “She thinks Abby is the kind of girl I want. She thinks I treat her differently because she’s a bigger girl, when in fact I think she’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
She’s all I think about. Day in, day out.
I asked her to stay. I want her to stay. ”
The room feels smaller now, the beer can sweating in my hand, my pulse still hammering from the confrontation downstairs.
Maggie hesitates, then says, “If she was to stay here, Cole… where would she stay? In the house you told her you built for Abby?”
I freeze. Fuck. Why did I tell her that? That’s why I don’t open up. That’s why I don’t say anything. The regret hits like a gut punch, sour and sharp, my chest tightening until it hurts to breathe.
“You’re right,” I shake my head.
“Don’t go building this girl a house, Cole. She’s leaving,” she says.
“You don’t know that!” I yell, voice cracking louder than I mean it to, the beer sloshing in my can.
“Sorry.” I immediately apologize, rubbing my face, stubble rough under my palm.
Maggie takes another sip, the can crinkling in her hand.
“No, I don’t want to see my big brother hurt again.”
I look down, the cold seeping into my skin from the beer can.
“If it’s meant to be, it will… give her some space. Be friendly. Let her miss how things were. It’s all psychological… my bro.”
“Thanks, sis. You’re always good with the ladies.” I push her a little with my foot, teasing, the bed shifting under us.
She laughs—short, real.
“Yeah right. I got problems of my own.”
“Want to talk about it?” I ask.
“I think we both have a hard time expressing our emotions. I think I’m falling for Lanie and she told me she feels like I don’t even like her half the time? How could she think that? She’s the only thing I like.”
I chuckle. “I think Layla feels the same.”
“Yeah, it just sucks. I’d love for Layla to see the real you. She deserves that, Cole. And if you really like her, if you love her like I think you do, be her friend first. Show her the real Cole Michael Marshall.”
I smile at her. She walks over, grabs another beer from the six-pack—the cans clinking cold—and heads toward the door. Before closing it, she turns around.
“I’m here, Cole. I’m staying in Clover. I’m here.”
“Good, you belong here, Maggie.”
I smile as she closes the door, soft clicking in the quiet room.
Be her friend first. I think I can do that.
I will do anything I need to. I get up, walk over to my bedroom window that looks out over to the guest house.
The lights are on inside, soft glow through the curtains, her shadow moving faint.
The night air seeps through the cracked window, cool, carrying crickets and distant owl calls, stars sharp overhead like pinpricks in black velvet.
“Looks like you’ve got a new best friend, city girl,” I mumble, taking another sip, the beer cold against my lips, the taste bitter on my tongue.