Chapter 13
13
Davis
“You think I can’t keep a secret?” Sloane asks as her phone rings again.
“I have trust issues.”
“That’s the lamest— ugh .”
She’s staring at her phone.
I watch her.
“It’s my grandmother,” she grumbles.
“Answer it.”
“I don’t want to. Nigel probably called her and told her I’m being a petulant child, so she’s going to lecture me, and?—”
“Answer it.” I tip the pan over a bowl, pouring in all of the popcorn. “I want to speak with my grandmother-in-law-to-be.”
She blinks at me.
Then at the phone.
Then back at me.
“It’s a video call.”
“Even better.”
The phone’s still ringing.
She’s still staring at it.
I grab my garlic salt and a small container of grated parm from my fridge, toss both into the popcorn, and reach her before the phone stops.
“Ooh, popcorn ,” she breathes.
Taking her phone is like taking candy from a sleeping baby.
I swipe to answer and am instantly grateful for the things that I’ve already seen in my life.
Because I’m not prepared for the face staring back at me on the video call.
No idea how old Sloane’s grandmother is, but she was clearly a beauty in her day, and her day isn’t over.
Her silver hair is neatly framing her face. Minimal wrinkles. Bright blue eyes. Cheekbones still prominent.
I don’t know what’s in the water in Two Twigs, Iowa, but whatever it is, it’s working.
“Who are you?” she says to me.
“Davis Remington, ma’am. Your granddaughter’s fiancé.”
The pretty disappears behind a scowl. “Over my dead body.”
Sloane pauses in shoveling a massive handful of popcorn into her mouth and looks up at me with wide eyes.
They’re getting bloodshot, and I don’t think it’s the tequila.
I think the day’s catching up with her.
“Strong words,” I say to Granny Grumpy. “Want to get to know me before you judge me?”
“Oh ma gah,” Sloane says around her mouthful of popcorn.
She’s fucking gorgeous.
Completely real.
Unfiltered.
I like her.
Fuuuuck .
I appreciate her. I can appreciate someone’s realness and the way realness lends itself to attraction.
“Where is my granddaughter?” Granny Grumpy says.
I turn so she can see Sloane behind me.
Sloane finger-waves and shoves another full handful of popcorn into her mouth.
She moans like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted, then cuts herself off mid-moan to stare at the phone like she just got caught masturbating in public.
To thoughts of me , my brain adds.
I flip it off.
“Sloane’s had a long day. We’re having a late dinner,” I tell Granny Grumpy.
“Let me talk to my granddaughter.”
I back up three steps so Sloane’s larger in the camera view. “She’s right here.”
“Alone.”
“Sloane, you want to talk to your grandmother alone?”
Her eyes say no.
Her frozen body says please don’t make me answer that .
“I didn’t ask if she wants to,” Granny Grumpy snaps. “I said to do it.”
The cat yowls, then hisses.
Relatable, Peggy. “Last I checked, your granddaughter is a grown woman capable of making her own decisions.”
“Clearly not, if she’s marrying you. Which she won’t be. Sloane, Nigel’s ready to bring you home.”
Sloane visibly swallows, then makes the come closer gesture to me.
I don’t want to, but I obey, sitting on the couch next to her.
Because someone needs to respect her damn wishes.
And I swear I’m only so close that our thighs are touching because we have to sell this fake engagement.
She leans toward the phone, the focus in her eyes telling me she’s all here. “Grandma, I’m marrying Davis. Saturday. Whether you’re there or not. Because I love him, and he loves me, and it would mean the world to me to have your support. But I’ll do it with or without your support.”
Granny Grumpy’s jaw shifts back and forth. Her blue eyes are on fire. “I didn’t take you on to raise you to use that kind of sass with your elders.”
A buzzing starts in my ears.
I don’t like where this is going.
Sloane digs into the popcorn bowl again. “You raised me to be strong and independent and think for myself.”
“I raised you to not be a dummy, and look what you’re doing now. Is this the gratitude you show me for taking you in when I’d already done my part and raised your father? Now you’re defying me when I’m getting closer and closer to heaven’s gates with every passing day?”
Sloane flinches.
I curl my empty hand into a fist, order it to relax, and don’t listen to myself. “How old were you?” I ask Sloane.
“What?”
“How old were you when your grandmother took you in?”
She’s watching me like she doesn’t trust me.
Smart woman.
My fuse has been lit. There’s a fire in my soul, and I’m ready to burn the fucking world down to prove a point.
“Three,” she says quietly.
I twist the phone so Granny Grumpy can only see me.
I can see me too, and the heat reflected back in my own eyes is telling me I need to calm the fuck down.
But I don’t want to. “How much agency does a three-year-old have over their life?”
“Oh, we’re using fancy words to be better than other people, are we?”
“Can a three-year-old take care of herself?”
“Of course not.”
“Can a three-year-old clearly in need of a parent be the one who determines who that parent will be?”
“What kind of stupid question is that?”
The kind of question that she should’ve asked herself before raising two more kids.
I fucking hate when parents blame kids for existing.
I fucking hate when adults manipulate their children into believing they’re shitty when the truth is, kids are just fucking hard because it’s fucking hard being a kid.
I can barely hear myself over the roar of fury in my own ears. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. “Stop. Blaming. Sloane. For. Your. Life.”
Sloane sucks in a breath beside me.
Granny Grumpy leans into the phone until all I can see are her eyes and nose. “Do not tell an old lady what to do.”
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. “The day you can prove to me that a kid asked to be put on this earth, that a kid manipulated you into taking care of her, that a kid is born inherently evil and that every decision they make throughout their life is merely to spite you, that’s the day I’ll quit telling manipulative old ladies to leave my fiancée the fuck alone.”
I need fresh air.
Need to take a hike. Meditate. Stare at a campfire. Touch a few fallen leaves.
Find my center.
Find my calm.
Let go of the hero complex.
Go hit a punching bag.
Sloane grabs the phone from me. “Well.” Her voice is husky. “That’s hero material for you, isn’t it? Bye, Grandma. I need to go.”
She hangs up.
I suck in air through my nose, aware that both of my hands are balled into fists now, aware that I need to not be here.
I need to not lose my shit.
Sloane rests a hesitant hand on my back. “Are you okay?”
I blow out a slow breath.
Her house was broken into. She’s being attacked by the woman who raised her and a man who doesn’t give the first fuck about what’s best for her.
And she’s asking if I’m okay.
I blow out another slow breath. “I don’t like parents using I raised you as a control tactic.”
“Did your parents?—”
“My father did.”
I start to move, but her voice stops me. “I didn’t realize that’s what it was until a couple years ago. That I raised you was one more tool in the guilt kit. Now, I watch Libby and Clay Rock with Tillie Jean, and with Grady and Cooper, and I watch how they enjoy letting their kids live their own lives and make their own choices, how they trust their kids to be good people without the constant insistence that what they want is best, and I just—I want that. But I’ll never have it.”
“You have them though. They’re the family you chose.”
She doesn’t have what I have.
She doesn’t have the tight-knit group of friends that she grew up with. The ride-or-die buddies that you can trust with everything because you always have.
She had to start over from scratch to build her family.
What if she’d started somewhere else?
What if she’d started somewhere with more people just like her grandmother and Nigel instead of people like the Rocks?
She blinks quickly. “Sometimes when I’m with them, I almost feel like I could do it. Like I could be the parent I didn’t have. The one who doesn’t use guilt and shame and manipulation. But I don’t know if I ever really wanted kids of my own, or if they were just the expectation. But I still love my grandmother. She did raise me. She did save me. I just…don’t…like her right now.”
I realize I’ve gone from clenching my fists to rubbing my hands down my thighs, and I bolt to standing. “Can’t control other people’s choices. She can’t control yours, and you can’t control hers. Can only control how you react to it. You want a grilled cheese?”
I don’t wait for her to answer.
Easier to keep my hands busy and make a sandwich neither of us eats than it is to sit there with her, wanting to wrap her in a hug and not let go.
Keep her safe.
Safe from the entire goddamn fucking world.
From the shitstorm coming at her from all sides.
And to get a hug back.
To have someone I don’t know who’s been through shit and come out on the other side hug me tight and tell me that I’m okay too.
That my temper doesn’t define who I am.
That I do good in the world.
That my scales will be tipped to the right side when my time’s up.
Not because I need to believe in eternal salvation. But because I need to know that I’ve done my part to make the world better before I go.
The cat dashes in front of me, skids to a stop, looks up at me, and meows.
I toss it one of the cat toys Beck and Sarah left on the table, and it crouches down, wiggles its butt, and attacks.
Sloane’s eating the popcorn again.
She’s watching me.
It’s like it was Saturday night when I slipped on the coffee at the museum.
She’s making sure I’m okay.
It’s not as foreign and wrong of a feeling as it should be.
I take care of me. When I struggle, I call Vanessa or one of the guys from the neighborhood.
Don’t always say I need help.
Don’t need to.
Not with them.
Feels almost the same with Sloane right now, and that has me off-kilter enough that I burn her grilled cheese.
She eats it anyway.
Insists on it, actually.
Once she’s eaten, her eyelids begin to droop.
I don’t ask if she wants the bed.
Instead, I rise and hold a hand out to her, and I take her there. Toss a clean shirt and sweatpants on the bed for her, since all she has is her scrubs.
And then I leave her alone.
Tomorrow’s Wednesday. She still has to work.
And it’s not like I’ll sleep well even in the bed.
She should have it.
She face-plants onto the quilt covering the mattress, and I retreat outside for the fresh air I’ve needed since that phone call then start a campfire.
Check my phone.
No messages from Vanessa, but it’s blowing up with texts from everyone else. On the group text.
Naturally.
So if anyone didn’t know before, they do now. I scroll. And scroll. And scroll.
And I finally get to the beginning.
Ellie : What the HELL is going on in Shipwreck? Davis, we need an update RIGHT NOW. Is Sloane okay?
Beck : Did we bring the right kind of litter for her cat? We can go back out if the cat’s picky. Our cat’s picky. We get it.
Sarah : Our cat is not picky. You simply spoil her. Davis, Ellie’s not the only one who wants to know. How’s Sloane?
Cash : You’re not hosting a woman at that tour bus-wannabe thing you’ve got out there in the mountains, are you? My dude. You can spring for a hotel room. A fancy one at that. Spoil her. Don’t make her stay in the camper if you want to keep her in your life.
Tripp : Let the man have some peace. We all know he doesn’t date, even if he’s marrying her on Saturday, and we need to respect that.
Cash : Speak for yourself. I don’t know that he doesn’t date. I just know he doesn’t talk about his dates. And I know you’re all saying this wedding is another one of his fake weddings to do someone a favor, but this is above and beyond for a fake fiancée. Is there something going on with you and Sloane that we need to know about? I have an entire catalog of songs in a secret folder called “Davis’s wedding album” because they seemed right for the moment that you’d finally fall, but I didn’t expect it to be now. With Shipwreck’s favorite nurse. My brain is so blown.
Ellie : Are you all serious? A WOMAN’S HOUSE WAS brOKEN INTO, PROBABLY BY OUR MUTUAL EX-BOYFRIEND. And you’re worried about who’s getting into her pants and if this fake wedding is real? I’m so disgusted right now.
Beck : Dude’s in his own honeymoon phase, El. He probably didn’t think about how that would sound before he said it. And I’m sure he’s sorry.
Aspen : I’ve taken his phone away. Yes, he’s sorry. Also, can someone fill me in? Who’s Sloane?
Ellie : Got you on a side text, Aspen. Davis, not kidding. IS SHE OKAY? What does she need? What can we do?
Sarah : I’m going over first thing in the morning. Hoping she’s sleeping now. I don’t know if I could sleep if I were her. I barely slept the night after I thought Beck was breaking into my house, even though I figured out he wasn’t actually a threat.
Levi : Do you need security? I can send some people up.
Tripp : Good idea since he feels the same about security as he does about dating, but in the security case, I don’t support honoring his wishes.
Beck : So… you do or you don’t support Davis having some security now? I’m confused.
Tripp : Go eat a sandwich. I support having security on Davis whether he likes it or not.
Wyatt : I’d just like to point out that Davis can take out the blond caveman with a flick of his wrist. Dude doesn’t need security. After the years of martial arts he’s done, he is security.
Ellie : But if Levi sends a team, we get reports.
Beck : Okay. Got a sandwich. Brain’s thinking clearer now. And I think we should respect his privacy.
Ingrid : Speaking as a regular nobody and one of the newer members of this group text… I thought we were supposed to be most worried about the fact that he quit his job. I mean, yes, worried about Sloane too, but our concern for Davis was him having too much time on his hands. Right?
Levi : We’re easing into it so he doesn’t change his number and flee the country instead of answering us.
Ingrid : Oh. Crap. Sorry. Has he done that before?
Tripp : We’re still not sure.
Lila : Uncle Guido says no.
Levi : Oh shit. You called Uncle Guido?
Beck : Whoa. I think I just got not hungry in fear.
Sarah : He’s still eating his sandwich. He’s fine. Also, ditto to Levi’s Oh shit.
Beck : Habit. Not hunger. What else—wait, do I want to ask that?
Wyatt : What else did Uncle Guido say, Lila?
Ellie : It’s so hot when you’re not afraid of the retired CIA guy. Wanna leave this group chat?
Beck : Ew. I’ve definitely lost my appetite now.
Sarah : He finished his sandwich. And now I’m echoing Wyatt—what else did Uncle Guido say?
Lila : He says the treasure’s real and Shipwreck is fucked if the wrong person finds it.
Beck : Oh shit. I like Shipwreck.
Sarah : How can a treasure fuck a town?
Lila : Actually, I read a book once where that happened, but it was…a thing.
Tripp : Lila’s reading habits are sometimes scarier than her having an uncle Guido. I didn’t know the depth and breadth of the romance genre until I met her, and I’m still horrified that my kids might one day find the same books.
Ingrid : Is Davis actually on this group chat? And can any of you focus? Do I have to pull out my mom voice?
Levi : He’s on the chat, and yes, please, use your mom voice. I like your mom voice.
Ingrid : Davis Remington, get your ass into this group chat and explain yourself right now, or I’m returning every one of the books you ordered from my store last week and telling all of my bookseller friends to make you track them down in a library instead. And then I’m telling the librarians you’re coming and not to help you either.
Aspen : Treasures and jobs aside, getting in on this group chat is possibly the second- or third-best thing that’s ever happened in my entire life. Maybe fourth. Definitely top five.
Wyatt : My kid might have a crush on you, but we all need to be quiet while we wait to see if Ingrid’s mom voice worked to get Davis in the chat.
Beck : Unless he’s getting laid if this wedding thing is more real than he’s making it out to be. Or finding a treasure. Can’t deny it—finding a treasure would actually be fucking cool. Like, how often does a guy get to be in a boy band, then be an underwear model, then marry the love of his life, then get the best babies ever, AND find a treasure, all while living in a world where the food is incredible?
Ellie : Cash, how far are you from Davis’s place? Beck’s in happy land. We need someone who’ll be a little harder on him.
Sarah : I’m ten minutes away too. And I still have the taser that convinced Beck I was the love of his life.
Ellie : Sarah, I love you, and I will never not love what you’ve done with your taser, but as Wyatt pointed out, Davis has been in martial arts classes since he was like three.
Beck : So has Sarah. She just doesn’t talk about it so that if it’s necessary, nobody sees her coming.
Aspen : Top four. Definitely top four things to ever happen in my life. Cash and I are on the tarmac in New York. Taking off soon to head back to Copper Valley since we don’t actually have to be in New York until this weekend, but it’ll still be a few hours before we can be there.
Sarah : I’m on it. Davis, see you in ten minutes.
Davis : *picture of a campfire* Bring marshmallows and stay silent. She’s sleeping.
Tripp : We’re gonna need that picture with proof of time and date in it too.
Wyatt : You know he probably has a stash of time-date photos that he can crop to make us believe anything he wants to within minutes, right?
I let myself heave a sigh, then focus on the campfire again as my phone keeps buzzing with incoming texts.
My friends are the best.
And also the worst.
But usually the best.
I start a response.
I don’t want anyone coming, and I know Sarah well enough to know she won’t take me up on the toasted marshmallows offer. She doesn’t like to leave the kids at night, and Beck loves her more than he loves food, so there’s not much danger that he’ll show up again either.
But before I can finish telling them thanks for their concern, but I’m fine, a muffled scream explodes inside my trailer.