32. Slather Me to Death #2
The thing about identical twins is we’re “identical,” but we are not the same.
We are in so many ways, but in other ways, we’re polar opposites.
Lots of twins are. We look alike. We sound alike.
We’re mirrors of DNA. Our kids could be siblings as far as the medical world is concerned.
But our minds—our souls—well, that’s a different story altogether.
I hated running. I still hate running. But Em coerced me into it. She didn’t necessarily need the moral support. She knew her mind and was strong and fierce in her own right. But there’s something about having your other half with you when you’re struggling that tilts the scales in your favor.
So I ran.
I ran with her when she struggled. I ran with her when she needed to escape.
I ran with her in college when the stress got to be too much.
I ran with her while she was pregnant with Colt and we knew there would be gossip.
And I ran with her after he was born so Mom would stop talking about the softness in her hips or the sag of her breasts or the overall mom-ness her body displayed.
I ran with her when Mom left her plastic surgeon’s business card on Colt’s carrier.
I ran with her when she just needed out.
We didn’t talk much. It was never a gab session. But I matched her stride for stride, and there was an ease in that that allayed her worries.
She ran for peace.
I ran for her.
And, maybe, this is my way of staying connected to her and getting my peace from her.
I run every morning. I hate it, but I have a connection to the woman that I’ll never not miss.
To my other half.
To my missing half.
The Rangers’ ranch is beautiful. The morning light casts a warmth over the dewy grass, and the morning haze burns off by halfway through my loop.
I have the same path every morning. Dirt and gravel crunch under my shoes. It’s consistent. It brings Em home here. I need to grab a jogging stroller and let Colt have something of his old life.
I open the front door to the house. I haven’t bothered knocking in the nearly three weeks I’ve been here.
Braxton no longer sets the alarm, and I’m good with no longer staring down the barrel of a pistol or hearing Colt scream in panic.
I can only assume the second time I set it off was two times too many.
Instead of giving me the code or talking to me about my comings and goings, the alarm no longer sounds when I come or go from my six o’clock runs.
This morning is no different.
I move to the kitchen. The sound of my breathing bounces off the tile floors. I grab a glass from the cupboard and fill it with water, downing the whole thing.
I lift the hair in my ponytail from my back where it sticks to my sports bra and keep both my hands on my head, opening my lungs and allowing them as much oxygen as they can get.
The sleepy “Fuck” I hear groaned behind me surprises me. I grab a knife off the counter and spin.
There stands Braxton Ranger, rubbing a hand down his handsome, stubbled face. His dark hair stands up all over his head, testament that he’s just woken up. So is the bulge in his basketball shorts.
“Eyes up here, please. And you can set down the butter knife.” His grin is genuine. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen it.
I look down to realize I am, indeed, holding a butter knife.
“You scared me.”
“What were you going to do—slather me to death?”
My eyes narrow as my annoyance rises. “I was thinking more like death by a thousand cuts.”
“You wish. That thing is so dull it can barely help butter melt on toast.” He moves toward me and reaches behind me to grab a coffee mug before moving to the pot to grab a cup. His closeness surprises me. He isn’t usually this familiar.
I twist and set the knife in the sink, shaking thoughts of Braxton’s closeness from my mind.
“That’s quite a getup,” he says, and I get the impression he didn’t mean to say that out loud.
I glance down at my shorts and sports bra. “I needed the run. And I didn’t pack for a month-long sabbatical when I left home.”
“I’m not making fun.”
“Oh.” I cross my arms to cover my chest. It’s cold inside, and my body registers it.
“You’re a runner?”
“Not really, but it works when I don’t have other options. I prefer to swim.”
He nods, taking a sip of his coffee.
When the silence stretches on, I look around the kitchen as if there will be answers for this awkwardness written on the cabinets or counters.
“Well…” I draw out the word. “Better jump in the shower. Same schedule today?”
“Works for me if it works for you.” I hear as I turn and leave the kitchen.
The same schedule is what has become our norm.
I stay with Colt from when he wakes until noon.
I grab my run prior to his wake-up time.
We have breakfast and play. He has an early nap and then we have lunch about the time that Braxton comes in from the first part of his day.
He joins us for lunch—mostly watching Colt play with a bottle and the few foods he eats. Then he leaves with Braxton.
It’s exhausting.
It’s wonderful, but it’s exhausting. I’m not used to a baby’s schedule or the lack of sleep that comes with a teething baby. I’m not used to the constant focus and attention they require.
Em was the maternal one. Em was prepared. I was happy to pitch in, but I was too busy running a business to consider the implications of working and having to care for a child.
I have a business to run. While my clients have been understanding, they also pay me handsomely and have expectations as to the quality and timeliness of my work.
So I work. Wainwright and Bronwyn Carrington bred no less.
I work before Colt rises and then from lunch until early evening when he comes home with Braxton.
I work evenings, too, because crises don’t wait until it’s convenient for the PR team to be ready.
Branding and marketing are the day-to-day.
Public relations is where I truly shine.
It’s also where I earn my money. And I don’t do poorly.
To have me on retainer requires a hefty buy-in.
Not to toot my own horn, but I’m that good.
The pressure from our mother burned the smile and cool exterior of a pageant contestant fused with the strategy of my father’s shrewd politicking into me.
It means I can think on my feet. I’m sharp and I don’t take bullying. I can also spin. I’m damn good at it.
Put me on TV as the face of your business, and I can not only save you from the media maelstrom, I can increase your bottom line.
I’ve had no complications with my schedule and the problems that arise with my clients. I’ve been lucky in that regard, but I will need some leeway, just in case.
I might also think that Braxton won’t fail Colt.
That thought surprises me, and I choke on the water that pours off me as I rinse the conditioner from my hair.
I might just trust Braxton Ranger.
At least where Colt is concerned.
The knock on the door at three in the afternoon surprises me. Frankly, it catches me so off guard that I wonder if I should have a knife at the ready… and not a butter knife this time. A real knife. One with a pokey end and a well-honed blade.
I may “live” here, but this is not my house. I don’t even know if I should answer a knock on Braxton’s door, but whoever it is won’t stop, and that ruins my concentration.
“Hold on,” I yell, grabbing my cell phone and pushing in nine-one-one and hovering my finger over the go button. I shake my head at my thought. Chances are slim the delivery man is here to take me out—or that the local sheriff would make it in time if one tried.
Another knock.
“Hold your horses!” It seems appropriate, and I laugh at my pun.
I pull open the door, the older man behind looks familiar, but I don’t believe we’ve met.
“Emberleigh?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Kimpton Ranger, Colt’s grandfather. May I come in?”