Chapter Twenty-Four
It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to your little frame. And if that will be snapt I should bleed inwardly. As for you—you'd forget me.
My trailer, with its double bed, braided rug, and gingham curtains, is small, simple, and charming.
Plus, you know what they say—location, location, location.
I’ve got close proximity to the horse barn and the main house’s porch entrance.
Sure, my windows rattle whenever the wind picks up, but my front step catches the sunrise just right—ideal for sitting and sipping coffee as the world wakes up.
Of course, the “backyard” is its biggest perk—all of the ranch, with the San Juan Mountains as a backdrop.
That’s the little sales pitch I deliver to Chet just before I announce my plans for tonight. “After I ride Betty, and then Miss Adele,” I say, “I’m taking some alone time.”
It’s late afternoon. Chet’s perched on his porch, laptop open. The sun’s beating down, and he’s retreated into the blessed shade of the overhang, nursing a water bottle stamped with “ShopSpot.”
“I understand,” Chet murmurs. “But you’d tell me if you were still mad about earlier, right?”
His tone, husky yet wry, tugs at the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. He’s propping his boots up on a footstool, a little rip at the knee of his jeans, wearing a crisp white V-neck, reading glasses perched on his nose. Somehow, here in the quiet afternoon, that combination is overpowering.
“Would I need to? After all, I’m the ‘most transparent’ person you know.” I use air quotes. He gestures for me to sit on a wicker chair, and I do.
“That’s right,” Chet says. “And I can tell when you’re upset. Is it Mason? Or something else?”
I sigh. For too long, I’ve tried to forget that face, watching Chet and me in the barn. “Last week, when we were—you know—in the barn, I thought I saw someone watching us through the window.”
Chet looks like he’s weighing his words. “You thought you saw someone? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because we were in the middle of things, and, well, it was all so surreal. At first, I blinked, and I was sorta surprised and bewildered, but also really close to an orgasm. So perhaps I imagined it?”
Lips pressed together, Chet just tilts his head.
“All I know,” I continue, “is that it was not—and I’m sure about this—it wasn’t your aunt.”
Chet’s forehead wrinkles, like he’s trying to puzzle this out. “Well, yeah. Grace wouldn’t watch us. Of course it wasn’t her.”
“Then who? How do you explain it?”
Chet drinks from his water bottle, looking off in the distance. He runs a hand through his hair. “Your mind’s always racing, Jane. You overthink.”
I lift my chin. “I wasn’t overthinking. At that moment, my mind was empty of everything except how good it felt being with you.”
He leans forward, balancing elbows on his knees, shirt gaping. I feel a sudden jolt of something—attraction, fear, confusion.
“Shadows and light played a trick on you,” he says. “Given the circumstances, it’s not hard to imagine that you’d see something that just wasn’t there.”
Gripping the wicker chair’s armrest, I mull this over. “My friend Bront? thinks I saw Birdy.”
Chet’s jaw drops open, his chin nearly hitting the floor. “Tha-That’s impossible. Birdy’s in and out of the hospital. She—”
“Not real-life Birdy,” I clarify. “Bront? thinks I imagined her. That my insecurities manifested, or something like that.”
“Your insecurities?” Chet shakes his head. “I’m not following.”
I try not to sound exasperated. “You’ve got a complicated, unresolved relationship with your gorgeous, glamorous ex, who obviously still needs you. So you must have, at the very least, some ambivalence around her.”
“Nope,” Chet insists. “No ambivalence. Birdy and I are done. One hundred percent. Promise.”
“Come on, Chet. Don’t pee on my back and say that it’s raining.”
He lets out a strangled-sounding laugh. “Excuse me?”
I stand. “I’d rather you admit that you still have feelings for her.”
Chet stands, too, as if to block me from leaving the porch. “If it was true, I’d be honest about it. But I don’t still have feelings for her.”
Uncertainty twists in my stomach. “I don’t believe you, Chet, at least not the part about you being honest. You’re clearly hiding something.”
I step around him. In a flash, Chet closes the gap between us. He grasps my arm and pulls me close.
“Jane . . .”
Then, he’s kissing me. At first, I resist, but soon my defenses vanish.
I give in because every cell in my body is wired for this strange, dark, hungry man.
There’s nothing soft about this kiss—nothing gentle in the sweep of his tongue or the way he fits his palm to the back of my head, tilting it, owning the moment.
Our teeth graze. The world narrows to his wintergreen taste and the burn of his stubble on my upper lip.
He licks the seam of my mouth, and it’s not a question; it’s a dare.
I answer with the whole wild ache inside me, kissing him back so hard it almost hurts.
He pulls away first. “I’m sorry,” he rasps.
“I’m not good at talking about my past. Doesn’t mean I don’t want a future with you.
Because I do.” He takes a deep breath. “So enjoy your alone time tonight. Take all the time you need. Just know that whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here, waiting for you. ”
Silently (and a bit unsteadily), I turn and walk away.
A few hours pass. I take Betty for a ride, and then Miss Adele.
Dinner is boxed mac and cheese, my favorite comfort food, though it pales in comparison to the gourmet meals Chet’s been cooking for me.
Once I’ve eaten, I pull out next month’s Spicy Book Club pick, determined to form some profound opinions.
To redeem myself after last week’s false start.
But I’m reading the same passage multiple times, realizing I’ve got no idea what the story is even about.
Instead, I pull out my tattered copy of Escape from the Springs. Opening to a random page, my eyes fall on the line: We glorify safety, flinging ourselves onto treadmills of convention. We spend our lives walking in place, never finding truth or beauty. Never taking a chance.
The next moment, I’m standing at Chet’s back door, my hand raised to knock. He opens it before my knuckles make contact.
“Why are you knocking?” he asks, surprise softening his voice. “Just let yourself in.”
I step right into his arms.
After dark, the western sky throws a tantrum.
Lightning splits the mountains, thunder shakes the ceiling, and wind rattles the windows with a tenacity I both respect and loathe.
Lightning flashes, temporarily illuminating the room.
For a split second, I can see my painting of Miss Adele.
Chet was true to his word—he hung it over his bed.
His arm is slung across my ribcage. His fingers twitch a little every time thunder rolls in, just a tiny reflex, a giveaway that he’s not quite asleep.
Around midnight, he pulls me in so tight my back’s glued to his chest. Our feet are tangled.
It should be too hot under the blankets, but the air conditioner is working overtime.
I lie there, counting the seconds between the thunderclaps and lightning flashes.
BOOM! I jolt like I’ve been electrocuted. Chet’s body tenses beside me.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be.” His fingers find my neck, brushing away damp strands of hair. “Storm’s fault, not yours.” His yawn tickles my ear. “Have you been lying here freaking out?”
“Not freaking out. Just remembering something from my childhood.” I brush my fingers along Chet’s arm. “When I was twelve, my family boarded this horse named Kenny G. Like the saxophone player.”
Chet hums a refrain of “Songbird.” Then, kissing the top of my head, he murmurs, “Go on.”
“Kenny G was skittish. He hated thunderstorms. That’s not unusual, but most of the time, sheltering a horse in its stall makes it feel safe.
That wasn’t the case with Kenny G. He got scared because he could hear and feel the storm but he couldn’t see it.
So he’d neigh and thrash about until I led him outside.
Even though he got rained on, once Kenny G actually saw the thunder and lightning, he calmed down.
Made me realize that sometimes it’s less scary to face a threat head-on.
It’s the stuff we can’t predict that’s most terrifying. ”
“I suppose,” Chet says. “But none of us knows what will happen next. Life isn’t a book that you can skip to the last page and read. Sometimes we must barrel ahead, blindfolded. Because the alternative is worse.”
“What’s the alternative?”
“Playing it safe. Not going after what you want out of fear. Letting self-loathing dictate your choices.”
I pause, tracing the lines of his fingers on my belly. “Is that what you’re doing?” I ask.
“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’m afraid it’s what you’ll do, once you figure out just how flawed I am.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I swear, Jane,” he says, his voice dropping to that intimate register that makes my stomach flip, “sometimes I think if our hearts were connected—like, actually physically tied together by a string that snapped—I’d be the one bleeding out while you’d just . . . move on. Like nothing happened.”
Something hot and sharp rises in my chest. Turning, I face him.
“Jane?” His fingers brush my hair.
“Don’t.” The word comes out raw. “You think I’m some kind of robot? That I don’t feel things? That I can just rebound from any hurt like it never happened? God, Chet. Just because I don’t fall apart in front of you doesn’t mean I’m not falling apart.”
“Oh, Jane—” He pulls me against him, his stubble rough against my forehead. “That’s not what I meant.” When he pulls back, his eyes gleam despite his serious expression. “Your heart is way bigger than mine. That’s the problem.”
“So I’m too emotional now? Is this the part where you tell me it’s not working out?”
He puffs out a breath like his chest hurts. “The only thing not working out is me. I don’t deserve you. But I still want to keep trying.”
My fingertip skims the outline of his jaw. “What’s stopping you?”
“A few things.” His voice cracks. “I’ve been running. From happiness. From connection. From anything real. But with you, I feel like . . .” he takes another shaky breath “. . . like maybe I could learn to stop running.”
There’s something electric between us that has nothing to do with the storm.
Rain pounds the roof, and my heart pounds as well.
His eyes lock with mine. “Move in here with me. Stop being my employee and start being my partner. We’ll run Resilience Ranch together. And we’ll . . . we’ll love each other.”
The rain intensifies, matching the rhythm of my pulse. “I’d like that,” I whisper.
Outside, the storm rages on. Lightning illuminates his face for a brief moment; thunder follows. But the chaos outside can’t touch the joy I feel in his arms.
In the morning, Chet gets up first. When I pass his study, he’s already at his computer, glasses on, staring at the screen while talking on his phone.
He’s mostly listening, jaw flexing, but then Chet interrupts.
“. . . I don’t care if Mason’s lawyers threaten to file daily.
The endowment has to be ironclad. No contest, no exceptions. ”
It’s tempting to linger and try to hear more. Instead, I make coffee and go for a walk. That’s when I discover that the massive oak tree by the horse pasture has been split in two. It’s got to be from last night’s lightning. And it’s got to be a sign.
But a sign of what?
I keep walking, fear settling into my heart. And an intrusive thought steamrolls itself into my brain. Chet and I are like that tree—unable to predict what’s coming. Powerless to stop it. So powerless, we can’t protect ourselves.
Does that mean we’re doomed to split in two?