Chapter 5 A Brunette and Some Blondies
A Brunette and Some Blondies
BILLIE
Even though my parents have done very well for themselves over the years, they still live in the single-story ranch house they built when they outgrew the old foreman’s cabin after I was born.
It’s fifteen hundred square feet. Four bedrooms, two baths, with a kitchen that’s big enough to hang out in. But we always, always have eaten in the formal dining room.
“Formal” is a bit of a misnomer for the cozy but less-than-fancy spot where we eat all our meals. It’s dominated by a huge oak table and the antler chandelier that hangs above it.
We’ve ribbed Mom more times than I can count about that light fixture.
“How many innocent bucks had to die so you could pretend that you’re John Dutton?” Tate asked her once.
Mom just smiled, ignoring him as she drank her longneck of Miller High Life.
Her style of decorating can best be described as “shabby chic meets hunting lodge,” and while it’s not my personal favorite, she’s made it work over the years.
Our house is comfortable, lived-in, and full of memories.
A true family home, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
We all have our places around the table.
Mom and Dad sit at either end, while I grab my usual spot to Dad’s right.
I claimed it as soon as I was old enough, thinking it would keep me closest to Dad so that I could therefore become his favorite, and therefore do whatever I wanted, just like my brothers.
Alas, that idea obviously hasn’t come to fruition. But I still sit to his right, and he still grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze as he says, “All right, y’all, time for roses and thorns. Dean’s up first.”
“Because I’m the cutest,” Dean says with a grin.
“Or the youngest,” Dad replies. “But you’re also the cutest, so that works.”
Roses and thorns is a family tradition going back as far as I can remember. Growing up, we ate dinner together at this table every night. And every night, Dad would go around the table and ask us what our favorite part of the day was (our rose) and our least favorite (the thorn).
Cheesy? Sure. But I’ve realized it’s his way of staying connected to us—of knowing what’s going on in our lives.
Dean clears his throat. “The best part of my day was reading a whole book by myself.”
I gasp. “You read a whole book by yourself?”
“Yup.” He smiles proudly as he shoves a scoop of Mom’s famous roasted smashed potatoes in his mouth. “Guess what I read?”
“Hm.” Mack chews thoughtfully for a minute. “Curious George?”
“Yes! How did you know?”
Mack chuckles. “I’ve only read those books to you a thousand times. Is that who you’re going to be for Halloween?”
“No,” Dean replies like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m going to be a zombie football player. Duh.”
I hide my laugh with my napkin. “Sounds spooky.”
“I’m not scared of zombies.” Dean shovels a forkful of food into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. “Although Curious George is definitely more friendly than that.”
I reach over the table to give Dean a fist bump. “Proud of you for reading, bud. Will you read some Curious George to me after dinner?”
“Maybe. If I’m not too tired.”
I can’t help but smile. He is cute. I’ve wondered in a vague sort of way if any kids I have will look like him.
He’s a Wallace through and through, with his thick blond hair and big brown eyes.
Like his daddy, he’s obsessed with horses and Texas football.
He also loves it when I paint his nails funky colors—neon blue is his current favorite—and he shares my obsession with all the Hotel Transylvania movies.
“And your thorn?” Dad asks.
Dean tilts his head back and forth. “The way I write my name isn’t perfect. My teacher keeps asking me to write lowercase letters, but that’s really hard.”
Colt is already reaching for seconds from the plate of pork chops. “Aw, bud, it doesn’t have to be perfect to be good. You’re learning, so cut yourself some slack.”
I probably could take that advice myself. I know in the grand scheme of things I’m young, and it’s okay if I’m not where I want to be yet. I just wish I had the ability to figure out things for myself instead of my parents figuring them out for me.
Thing is, as much as I admire my parents and the life they’ve built, I want something different.
I am different, at least from the women in my family.
I want kids, but I also want a successful, fulfilling career.
I want to honor my family’s legacy, but I also want some semblance of personal happiness.
I know who I am. I just don’t know where the true, authentic version of myself fits in.
I’m up next for roses and thorns.
“My rose?” I wipe my mouth on my napkin, fighting a grin. “It has to be Ryder saving my life at the rodeo, right? It was weeks ago, but it was so epic that it’s still gotta count.”
Dad chuckles. “Your rose isn’t actually racing in that rodeo?”
“Well, that too.” I glance at Colt across the table, but he’s busy shoving more pork in his face. “Racing was just as exhilarating as I thought it’d be. The crowd, the energy, how fast it all went—”
“It’s the kind of thing you live for.” Tate gives me a knowing look. “So are you gonna do it again?”
“Lord, I hope not,” Mom says with an exhausted sigh.
I know Mom is only looking out for me, but her comment feels like a poke nonetheless. “I hope to race again, yeah.”
Dad skewers a pair of brussels sprouts with his fork. “I wish you coulda seen the way Ryder leapt over all those seats into the arena. It was like something out of a movie.”
Nash nods. “Dude is fast.”
No shit.
“You would’ve thought he had the hots for Billie by how quickly he ran.” Tate gives me a playful look as he gulps his wine. “That’s what I thought, anyway.”
“Not funny.” Colt stares down Tate.
Tate holds up his hands. “Or maybe it was just a friendly burst of energy that got him into that arena.”
“We’ll leave it at that.” Dad, ever the peacemaker, is good at smoothing ruffled feathers. “And your thorn, Billie?”
Wanting Ryder but not being able to have him.
Despising my job but being too chickenshit to quit.
“The surgery.” I’m gulping my wine now too. “All those needles.”
Dad pats my hand. “You were so brave, sweetheart.”
I’m not brave, though. I haven’t been honest with my parents about how much I hate my job.
I haven’t been honest with myself about what that means for my future.
I need to make some really big changes if I’m ever going to be happy, but I’ve been too scared of letting other people down to even think about what my next move might be.
I’m not sure what bothers me more: the fact that my family views me in a totally different way than I view myself, or that I let them think of me as this brave, steady, wholesome girl, when really, I’m something else entirely.
I wonder what Ryder would have to say about that.
I wonder if I’d feel any better if he hummed for me again.
Tate, Mom, and I are the last ones left in the kitchen after dinner. Tate loads the dishwasher while I wipe down the counters and Mom finds a spot for leftovers in the fridge.
“Hey, Mom?” I set down the countertop spray beside the dish soap at the sink and drop a handful of dirty paper towels in the trash. “Could I possibly bribe you for the rest of those blondies?”
Mom loves to bake, and she makes us dessert from scratch almost every time she cooks dinner. Today, she whipped up some blondies. They’re basically a chocolate chip cookie in brownie form, with a decadently thick, chewy center that oozes with melted semisweet chocolate chips.
They are to die for. Especially when you’re a literal cookie monster like Ryder, who loves a chocolate chip moment. Everyone thought he’d puke his guts out after eating an entire package of Chips Ahoy! on a dare from Colt. But the smug bastard just smiled when he was done and asked for more.
Ryder’s got a sweet tooth, a fact I haven’t taken advantage of until…well, right now.
Mom grins. “You don’t need to bribe me, honey. Take all you want.”
“Where are you off to?” Tate doesn’t look up from the dishes he’s rinsing in the sink.
My stomach dips. Leave it to him to sniff out my not-so-secret plan to visit my not-so-secret crush. “Nowhere.”
“Tell Ryder I said hello,” Mom replies.
I scoff. Am I really that transparent? True, I’ve pushed Ryder’s buttons plenty around my family. But for Tate and Mom to automatically know where I’m headed, my crush on Ryder must be even more obvious than I thought.
I consider denying the fact that I’m going twenty miles out of my way to ask Ryder Rivers to hum with me.
Sounds kinda kinky, actually.
If only.
But they’d know I was full of shit if I made up some story about needing this much comfort food in my house. I mean, there’s almost a whole tray of blondies left.
So I manage a sheepish smile and say, “I haven’t properly thanked him. For, you know, saving my life. So I thought I’d go over and, yeah.” I clear my throat. “Do that. Thank him.”
Tate rolls his eyes so hard I can practically hear it. “You were gonna be just fine with or without Ryder Rivers.”
“That’s not true,” I reply, a little hurt. Embarrassed, more like it. “He kept me calm in the hospital. Distracted me—”
“I’m just teasin’.” Tate turns off the faucet and grabs a towel, wiping his hands while he leans a hip into the apron of the sink. “Tell him I said thanks for taking such excellent care of my sister.”
My eyes sting. I blink. “Will do.”
“And y’all be good.” Tate’s eyes bore into mine. “By ‘y’all,’ I mean ‘you.’”
Wanting Ryder is like banging my head against the wall, I know. But I can’t seem to quit. Especially after seeing the swell of emotion in his eyes when I woke up in the arena. Made me think…I don’t know, something is different between us now.
I wanna know more.
I wanna see more.