7. Tinsley
CHAPTER 7
Tinsley
If I don’t leave now, I never will.
A
PS: Keep the hat. You always looked better in my stuff than I did. And in case you forget in the morning, Ellie is my niece.
I re-read Archer’s note and run my fingers over the indentations from the press of the pen.
After waking up the morning following my bar top debut, I found it on my pillow with his ivory colored cowboy hat. Like a giddy teenager, I had squealed and kicked my feet in the comforter, hugging the small scrap of paper to my chest. I then immediately pulled out my journal and taped it on the left side of a blank page and started writing.
Two and a half days later and both pages, plus several more, in the journal are now a mess with my sloppy handwriting. Lyrics flow into things I wish I could tell him and those things drift back to the song I’m creating. Along the margins are doodles of hearts, little strawberries, horseshoes, and his name traced over dozens of times.
I know I’m getting ahead of myself. A drunken night in his arms on the bathroom floor and a note with his hat quoting my words back to me does not equate to a rekindling. There’s ten years of history and growth between us, a hundred unanswered questions and motivations lacking explanation, and a mountain of scars and hurt to traverse through.
All this could simply be an echo of before. But rays of hope are peeking over the horizon and cresting into view.
I want to run toward them and feel the caress of its promised warmth on my face. Spin in their light. Dive head first back into the very thing that broke my heart and kick to the surface in time to see the sunrise.
There’s been a growing call to remember him, to come home. I thought it was so I could purge Archer from my system once and for all. But so much still exists between us. The unignorable magnetic pull. The crackle of chemistry. The reckless fall into one another. The desperate craving for more. More of his words, his touch, of him.
I didn’t do everything I could have before. I fell so far, so fast, and so deeply. It terrified me, and the fear eclipsed everything else. So I ran and ended up irrevocably piercing my own heart. Cried for nights on end when he didn’t come to mend what I had unknowingly broken between us. Took his silence as reason not to reach out myself. Ran again when the self fulfilling prophecy I whispered into existence came true.
I didn’t do everything I could have before.
It won’t be a mistake I repeat.
My left hand feels the press of his words again as my right scribbles across the opposite page, laying down more words. Words that are my new promise to him, to myself.
I get lost in the lyrics and melodies bouncing around inside my head waiting for me to pluck each piece and string them together. I hum. I sing. I pace. I rub at the tattoo along the curve of my breast while I think. Then I write every word and note before doing it all again.
Intermittently, I pause to twirl and dance my way around the charming, shabby chic kitchen of the rental.
Atop the vintage inspired stove, I remove the bacon from a frying pan on one of the back burners and stir the cooling strawberry simple syrup that’s waiting in a saucepan in the front. Beside the stove, I have the air fryer that matches all the country pink accents in the kitchen pulled out and waiting.
I skip along the planks of the naked hardwood floors to the sink, testing out the bridge of the song in conjunction with one of the melodies. Not liking it, I start again with another, extracting the green tomatoes I had soaking in a produce cleanse, drying them off on a hand towel.
The combination is a much better fit, the song turning upbeat and fun with a bit of country twang. Spinning to the music in my head, the skirt of the pink gingham apron I put on ripples up around my thighs, falling back down in a soft wave when I stop at the island to drop the tomatoes on my cutting board. Quickly, I step and turn back to the oven checking on the bread I’m baking. As I squint through the oven glass, my head bobs to a beat. Satisfied with the progress, I slide back to the island and cut the tomatoes, my knife coming down on the cutting board in time with the music I'm writing.
It’s chaotic and fun and I’m loving every minute of the process that’s beginning to create my next album.
“Holy Martha Stewart,” Briar draws out. Her blonde hair is piled on top of her head, her large framed reading glasses stuffed in like a headband. She’s wearing a knee length, knitted cardigan over a ribbed tank top and tiny lounging boxers and leather flip flops. Sticking out of one of the cardigan’s oversized pockets is a book featuring a couple on a rocky beach just before they kiss.
I wiggle my knife in the direction of the book and shoot off rapid fire questions.
“Tropes? Is it good? Spice?”
“I’ve already read half of it while sitting on the dock drinking my coffee; like a two but his mouth makes it a three easy; forbidden, best friend’s sister, secret tattoo—something you know all about—and yes, I’ll add it to the stack on your nightstand when I’m done.”
“You’re a queen, Briar,” I fawn, beginning to dredge the tomates through their flour, egg, and breadcrumb assembly line.
She takes a seat on one of the stools and props her elbows on the counter top, her chin coming to rest atop the shelf of her stacked hands.
“What has you all Stepford-like this morning?” She takes a sharp sniff of the air, her lips pursing as she begins to follow the smell. “Oh my God, Tins, are you making bread?”
“I am. Proofed it this morning while I did my concert cardio. I’m making fried green tomato BLTs with a Cajun remoulade for lunch, strawberry lemonade, and we have the lemon bars I made last night for dessert.”
“Marry me!” she pleads, bringing her hands together to beg. “I know great maid and laundry services and can make killer dinner reservations all while juggling your schedule and negotiating your deals. I also come with the best book recommendations.”
“Briar,” I laugh, bringing the tomatoes over to the air fryer and arranging them in the basket. “You’re supposed to entice me with things you don’t already do for me.” Setting the timer, I pull the lemon bars out of the fridge to cut, dust with powdered sugar, and package. “Besides, I already included a no B BLT and dairy-free remoulade in my prep plans just for you.”
The timer for the oven goes off and I pull out the turned over sheet pan I’ve been baking the rustic loaf on. I transfer it to a rack to cool and begin on the lemon bars.
Briar snatches one of the trimmed off corners and bites into it with a groan.
“Okay, seriously delicious, Tins. We should have you put together a cookbook or something. People would eat that shit up—no pun intended.” She takes another bite and after chewing asks, “So am I correct in assuming this is for a certain country boy you were eye fucking the other night?”
I’m unable to contain my smile or stop the blush heating my cheeks as I coyly answer, “Maybe.”
She squeals at my answer, hands balling up into excited little fists.
“Okay, okay, okay,” she repeats, blowing out a breath to slow herself down. “Tell me everything again. I want to hear every detail. Ugh,” she pouts. “I still can’t believe I passed out and missed it!”
The timer on the fryer goes off and I hold up a finger. After the tomatoes are flipped and the timer back on, I grab the stuff for remoulade from the fridge and begin dumping ingredients into a bowl.
“Okay, but I need you to pack that basket over there.”
“Oh my God, look at you! You’re all, like, domesticated. It’s freaking adorable!”
As she packs the basket with the lunch I’ve been making to bring to Archer at the ranch, I retell everything that happened at Dark Horse and after we left. How it wasn’t even until the following night when we were analyzing everything over a bottle of wine that I realized I had completely forgotten about the other guy I had been dancing with. What it felt like to have Archer’s gaze—so hot and hungry—searing my skin as he watched. The way he gripped my waist like he owned me and had begun tangling his fingers in my hair, using it to tug my head back.
“Get to the good stuff,” she urges, helping me out by toasting slices of the bread in a buttered pan while I mix the lemonade and get it poured into mason jars. “I want to hear about him holding you again and what he said.”
“Well, you know how upset I’ve been, thinking he moved on and had this sensational wife and the perfect life we talked about having together. So there I am, halfway between sobering up and still being drunk, not even caring that he’s right there witnessing me cry over him. And then he starts to shift and lean back against the wall, and I don’t know if I followed or if he brought me, but there I was between his legs, laying on his chest, and…” I drift off, leaning my hip against the counter as I think about it. “And it felt like coming home.”
“Tinsley,” she swoons, her hands over her heart.
“I know.”
My best friend squeals before plowing into me with a massive hug.
“I’m so freaking happy for you.”
“We can’t get too excited,” I warn.
Her hands move to my shoulders as she steps back. Staring me down, she demands, “And why not?”
“Because, it was one moment on the bathroom floor,” I explain, building sandwiches and wrapping them in paper for Briar to put in the basket. “In the light of day, it could mean absolutely nothing to him, and I need to keep that in mind.”
“Or,” she counters. “It could mean as much to him as it does to you.”
“Then why did he never call? Why did he move on so easily?” I mumble, my lip threatening to tremble. “Why wasn’t I worth waiting for or coming after?”
Briar turns me around, pulling my shoulders back to fix my slumping posture, and unties my apron.
“All things that need to be asked and discussed. But Tinsley,” she says sternly, turning me back, “Don’t let your insecurities win. You’re allowed to have hope and be excited. You have a second chance with your muse.” She says it incredibly exaggerated and with the goofiest face “See it through. Otherwise, songs of what could have been and holding your breath through the self-inflicted heartbreak are all you’ll have when we leave. And if that’s the case, I’m going to be incredibly pissed that we skipped over Paris for Green Acres, Tennessee. Please, make my time in Hell worth it.”
“And then I’ll never hear the end of it,” I tease, accepting the basket.
“Not even when we’re old and gray,” she confirms. “Now go give Lover Boy a sweet, afternoon treat—and maybe after, give him the lunch you made too.”
“brIAR!”
“What?” she laughs, ruining her attempt at looking innocent.
She walks me to the door where her purse and the keys to the SUV we’re renting are waiting on a white antique finished, wood entry table.
“Umm, Briar?” I ask.
Already eating her no bacon BLT, she hums, “Hmm?”
“I haven’t driven in eight years and never bothered to renew my license after it expired.”
“Oh shit, that’s right.” Swallowing her bite of food, she grabs her keys and purse and says, “Come on, Miss Daisy; Hoke’s got you.”
“Thanks, babe,” I laugh, following her out of the house.
* * *
We slowly pull up to the open gate of Emerald Lake Ranch—its 1,000 acre expanse along a peninsula of Berry Lake even further away from town than our rental—Briar’s mouth gaping as she looks up at the nearly 225 year old wooden arch with the ranch’s name carved in.
She turns in her seat and very seriously asks, “Tinsley, when you said Archer’s family was in the horse business, did you by chance mean the race horse business?”
I don’t meet her eye as I play with my fingers and quickly confirm with a jerky nod of my head.
“Is your ex Archer Hayes ?!” she shrieks. “As in, Hayes Breeding and Training? The multi- billion dollar ranch? Their studs’ sperm is worth millions. They’ve trained horses that have won the Belmont Stakes, the Breeders’ Cup Classic, the fucking Kentucky Derby. Jay Gatsby was one of theirs!” She looks at me like I’m insane and she no longer recognizes me as she demands, “What the hell were you thinking leaving him? He’s a billionaire , Tinsley—with a B!”
I finally remove my gaze from the spot on my jeans I’ve been steadfastly giving my attention to and look up at the old, historic arch that once greeted me every single day. The landmark of what became my home when I stopped returning to my parents’ condo every night and moved in with Archer.
I elect to believe her question is rhetorical—a teasing poke at me more than anything else. A whisper of relief leaves me when the SUV begins moving again and Briar’s astonishment turns to jest.
“Then again, all the money in the world isn’t worth having Hunter as a brother-in-law. Jesus, he’s an ass.”
“He wasn’t always.”
“Yeah, okay,” she scoffs in dismissal.
We follow the unpaved road as it bends and curves along the property until the main offices come into view.
Operations for the ranch are run out of an old, converted stable. The siding is dove gray and the roof slate—the hues of blue in the darker shade coming through with the sun high in the sky. A small, rectangular clock tower reaches up with matte black face clocks and brass hands displaying the time in Roman numerals on every side. The sloped roof of the artificial tower is capped off with a point extending up into a galloping horse adorned weathervane. Where stalls once were are picture windows framed in the same slate gray paint as the roof. Reclaimed wood makes up a new set of massive barn doors which are pulled open, showing off rustic herringbone patterned floors and giving a clear line of sight to the other end where matching doors are also open, allowing a glimpse beyond at the paddocks, tracks, hot walkers, and active stables.
Being here is like watching a movie of my past play out. I can see myself fling into Archer’s arms. My legs wrap around his waist as he catches and kisses me like we haven’t seen each other in a year and not just for a night. Breathless and shy laughter echoes inside my head from when we pulled back just enough to catch our breath. I can almost feel the tight embrace of his arms. It’s easy to recall the cool taste of spearmint from his toothpaste on my tongue and the smell of hay, leather, and morning dew.
The memories open a visceral ache in my chest. One I can’t so easily tuck away this close to the source.
Briar parks beside a dust covered red truck with splatters of dried mud. Thanks to years at my side in every capacity imaginable, she effortlessly reads the wistfulness I know isn’t outwardly reflected on my face.
“You chose to come back here for a reason. Don’t stand in your own way, Tins.” She points a finger at me and raises a brow, cutting off my beginning utterance of what if. “No, we’re not doing that. Hold on to what's been driving you all morning and let it guide you.” She reaches into the back and grabs the basket from the floorboard, depositing it into my lap. “Go on. I’ll be right here.”
I nod my head several times, my grip white knuckled on the basket’s handle.
“Okay,” I repeat several times before letting out a heavy exhale and unbuckling my seatbelt.
I’m out of the car, door shut, and my back far too rigid as I round the front of the SUV and head for the open barn doors.
“Remember,” Briar calls out, startling me into stumbling. “Sweet afternoon treat and then lunch!”
“Oh my God,” I scowl over my shoulder at her. It’s rendered useless, though, when I begin to laugh, my entire body relaxing as the weights of anxiety and regret lift.
It’s the reminder I need that I’m in love with a memory. And while it’s shaped so much of who I am, who we were ten years ago is not who we are now. No matter how strong the pull between us is, how quickly it’s snapped back into existence, we’re beginning again. At least, I hope we are.
I’m guided by memory alone, turning right when I enter. The third door on the left is slid open, a soft country rock song drifting out from inside. There’s an urge to hum along—the chorus one I wrote a few years ago before modifying it for a male singer to build upon that led to us winning a Country Music Association Award for Song of the Year—but I remain silent and just watch for a moment.
Archer has a pen between his teeth, another forgotten behind his ear, and is wearing his glasses instead of contacts. The sight of the black, rectangular frames was always a rare one. One that made my breath hitch the first time I saw him wearing them and never failed to cause a repeat event every time after.
It’s that weakness that always turned me into a puddle for him that has me speaking without thought—much like I assume occurred for him when he called me Shortcake the other night before I snapped at him.
“Hey, Superman.”
It’s instantaneous the way his head snaps up, the pen falling from his lips when he sees me.
“Can I come in?”
“What are you doing here?”
I lift the basket, suddenly self-conscious and answer, “I wanted to say thank you for the other night, so I made you lunch.”
“You made me lunch?” he asks a bit bewildered before scooting back on the wheels of his chair and quickly correcting himself as he stands. “I’m sorry; yes, of course you can.”
However, neither of us moves. We’re both transfixed on the other as if we can’t believe they’re real, standing here in front of us.
His green eyes are intense as he stares at me. They track across every part of my body from my loose hair and minimally made up face to where my shoulders are exposed by the thin straps of my blouse, down my jean covered legs to the caged wedges I’m wearing, and back up. It’s slow and heated, scorching my skin by the time he brings his gaze back to mine.
I wonder if he can see the increased rate at which my chest is rising and falling. If he took notice of how I couldn’t help but lick my lips and swallow when met with the full force of his beautifully framed eyes.
The simple white t-shirt he’s wearing is stretched taut over his broad shoulders, highlighting his tan. And like him, I can’t help but let my eyes fall down his body, drinking in his thick thighs that test the denim of his jeans and appreciating how low they sit on his hips despite his belt.
I wrack my brain for something to say, anything to break the mounting tension, when we start to mirror each other step for step, closing the space between us.
Archer beats me to it, though I wish he hadn’t when I hear how thick and rough his normally smooth and slow words are.
“You’re makin’ my heart race, Shortcake.”
“Mine too,” I whisper, hardly loud enough to move my lips though my words seem to reverberate like a gunshot.
He’s closer now, or maybe I am. His breath is hot as it fans down across my face, drawing goosebumps along the nape of my neck as molton fire licks down my spine. This close, I have to tilt my head back to maintain our eye contact, and it may just be my undoing. My palms are losing their grip on the basket as urgency to dive right back into him and shed everything that has made me Tinsley Jacobs takes hold. Discard it all until I’m stripped bare of everything that might keep me from being his again, my still broken heart be damned. I think the inevitable loss of what remnants remain would be worth it.
He says my name, soft and desperate, a labor-calloused hand coming out to cup my cheek. Leaning into his touch is natural, and my eyes flutter closed as I breathe him in. Tears inexplicably begin prickling when his thumb caresses up the bone, and a faint whimper escapes through my throat.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to begin demanding answers to all my whys, but what remains of my dignity is blessedly spared by an exuberant tornado whose entrance sends us springing apart.
“Tinsley!” Ellie shrieks, dragging Ryder, and to my amusement Briar, in with her.
Further stepping away from Archer and closer to the instantly lovable whirlwind that is his niece, I quickly shove down the rush of emotion and mask it all with a practiced smile.
“Hi, Ellie. I see you found Briar.”
“Pajamas. I’m wearing pajamas,” my normally always made up to the nines friend bemoans, adjusting the lapels of her cardigan to cover her braless front. For good measure, she crosses her arms as well.
“Yep!” Ellie pops before rushing me with a hug.
Ryder and Archer are both quick to reprimand her, but I don’t let her go, dismissing their concerns over her invading my space. Instead, I sink down to her height and wrap my arms around her, hugging the little girl back. I’m even more in love with her than before now that I know she’s Archer’s niece.
Ellie squeals in my ear, making me laugh before she pulls back and launches immediately into a discussion about her upcoming birthday.
“It’s Tinsley Jacobs themed,” she explains, further detailing everything without stopping for a breath. “My invitations are backstage passes and we’re going to have strawberry shortcakes instead of regular cake since you said that’s your favorite and strawberry margaritas too but dad says they have to be mocktails because I’m only turning eight but that’s okay because there’s also gonna be a stage where we’re gonna do our own concert but since you’re here I thought you could come sing for me and my friends.”
“Ellie,” Archer interjects. “Tinsley is on vacation. She’s not here to?—”
“I’d love to,” I interrupt.
Her responding scream is at a decibel I’m certain only dogs can hear.
“SERIOUSLY?! Oh my gosh, Dad, did you hear that?! Tinsley Jacobs—my favoritest person in the whole world, the best singer ever —is going to perform at my birthday party!”
“I did,” Ryder chuckles, attempting to extract Ellie, who flung herself back into my arms when I agreed, from me. “But if you squeeze the life outta her, she won’t be able to make it, Elle-Belle.”
Ellie yelps as she releases me like the handle of a hot pan, those green Hayes family eyes wide. I brush off her ensuing concern and assure her that I’m okay. Then standing back up, I scrunch my face up like I’m thinking hard on something, my finger tapping the tip of my nose.
Out loud, I ponder to Briar, “Hmm, do you think she knows any of the words to my songs?”
“I don’t know,” she draws out, playing along and trying to squash the smile stretching across her face. “There’s a lot, but I’m sure she knows at least one all the way through.”
“I know all of them,” Ellie defends. “Every single one of them.”
“You better not know every single one of them,” Archer gently chastises, brow raised as he stares his niece down.
“Except that one,” she sasses back. “I even know some of the dances from watching your music videos and concerts.”
“Then in that case, you have to perform with me.”
At her dropped mouth silence, Ryder congratulates, “Way to go, Tinsel; you’ve done the impossible and struck her speechless.”
“Briar, can you?—”
“Already on it,” she answers. Looking at Ryder she says, “We need to discuss details and plan a fitting and some rehearsal beforehand.” Extracting her phone from her cardigan, she begins making a list and marking down his and Ellie’s availability. When he mentions Archer normally picks Ellie up from school—her having been home today because of a teacher work day—and is with her in the afternoons, her blue eyes reflect the scheming that’s shining in his.
“Well isn’t that just perfect,” she nearly purrs, the two of them looking from Archer to me before sharing a mutual Grinch-like grin.
When they’re done and Ryder’s sent Ellie ahead to the main house, I’m ready to escape. Archer and I have barely looked at each other let alone spoken since being interrupted. And whatever was happening between us and the obliteration of my walls is not something I want to risk again. But before I can grab Briar by the elbow and make a run for it, Ryder asks, “Tinsley, when were you last on a horse?” keeping me rooted in Archer’s office.
“Um…”
“If you have to think about it, it’s been too long. Briar said you brought Archer lunch?—”
“Actually, I brought lunch for?—”
He continues talking as if I didn’t just try to extract myself.
“—why don’t the two of you go out for a ride, have a picnic, and catch up? If I recall, y’all would be gone for hours anytime you took Gatsby and Rowdy out.”
“I really?—”
“Come on, you haven’t seen your boy in ten years. He misses you.”
Somehow I don’t think he’s just talking about Rowdy.