Chapter 2
SEBASTIAN
“… A
nd it’s just annoying, because I know how to write an essay.
Like, I’ve been in AP English classes since the fourth grade.
” Lizzie grasped hold of the granite countertop behind her and hoisted herself onto its top.
“Literally. I won awards for writing. You remember that, don’t you?
That short story I submitted in fifth grade? ”
If memory served, I had submitted that short story. Lizzie kept saying that it wasn’t good enough yet. She was nine years old. It wasn’t going to win a Pulitzer. But it had won that contest because it was good enough.
Wiping my damp hands on my apron, I surveyed the island top for the cherry tomatoes hidden somewhere among the lettuce and onion and cucumbers and peppers. I opened my mouth to respond, but she cut in first.
“Oh my God, are you even listening to me?”
“Yes, I’m listening, and yes, I remember the short story. The Busy Bear. Literary excellence. Have you seen the tomatoes? I swear they were—” I spun around and spotted the tomatoes. In Lizzie’s lap.
She gave a crooked half smile. “Sorry.”
I snatched them and returned to my nearly finished salad in the wooden bowl. “Go on. You’re pissed at your English teacher because she gave you a bad grade on your essay?”
“It wasn’t a bad grade,” she insisted. “It was a C. But it’s not about the grade.
It’s about her feedback. She told me that I need to learn to ‘kill my darlings’ because I talked too much about my personal views on the subject.
Which was the point, right? It was an opinion essay on Of Mice and Men.
And I know why. Our class is the only class that still reads this book, and it’s because she loves it so much.
Well, I hated it. And that’s what the essay was about, our feelings on the book after having completed it, and I’m sorry—but, wait, you know what?
No. I’m not sorry. Maybe in its time, it was an excellent read. But in the modern era, it…”
For nearly a decade, this had been my favorite part of every day. Listening to Lizzie rant and rave about school, or drama with her friends, or current events, or pop culture.
At work, the lives of living creatures were in my hands and I had to think fast. I had to make hard calls.
And I guess here, making dinner with my niece, there was still a life in my hands. Lizzie was my responsibility. My responsibility, but also my peace. Following her chaotic train of thought forced my own to a halt.
But I wasn’t sure that this was my favorite part of the day anymore. Not because I loved Lizzie and her rants any less. Purely because I had something—someone—outside of her now.
With all the time I’d spent at the ranch, I had lots of people. Community, Rhiannon always reminded me. It takes a village, and we’ll always be yours. When I’d taken Lizzie in, those had been the first words out of Rhiannon’s mouth.
And they were my village. The staff, the women who came and went. They watched Lizzie when I had to work late. and they brought me their animals when they were sick. I cared for so many people because of that place, and so many of them cared for me.
Gwen was different, though. From the moment I met her, I’d known something was different. She was as quick-witted and smart-assed as I was. We talked, and the rest of the world vanished.
Now, lunch at Maple & Thyme, where Gwen worked, was my favorite part of each day. That, or when our paths would cross at the ranch.
Seeing her, talking to her, breathing in the smell of her perfume, and saying something off-kilter enough to watch her face squish up with confusion, only for her lips to stretch across her cheeks and her eyes to twinkle with amusement, were my favorite parts of every day.
“But I guess one C isn’t going to kill me, right?” Propping her elbows on her knees, Lizzie sighed deeply. “I deserve a better grade. I know I do. But it isn’t worth the battle.”
“Considering you already got fired from one teacher this week?” I dug around in the spice drawer in search of dried dill. “I concur. Not worth the battle.”
“Oh yeah. Speaking of which.” Lizzie hopped off the counter and came to the island. She dropped a—hopefully clean—hand into the plastic pack of cherry tomatoes and plopped the scoop onto her plate. “Did you talk to Gwen yet? Can she tutor me?”
Dill in hand, I frowned at her. “You know, I really don’t like how casual you are about this.”
“About Gwen?” She tossed one of the tomatoes into the air and caught it in her mouth. Not bothering to finish chewing before she spoke. “I thought we liked Gwen.”
“No, not Gwen. I’m talking about how casual you are over cussing out your piano teacher and getting expelled from the top musical academy in the state.”
Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Top musical academy in th—this is Montana. There are probably twenty musical academies in the whole thing. It’s not that serious, Seabass.”
“Expulsion from any school is that serious, Liz.”
“No, that woman was a bitch.” Lizzie raised a finger, motioning me to silence before I could scold her.
“She called Callie a fat ass because she ripped the leotard that this bullshit company has reused every summer recital for as long as I’ve been alive.
And that’s another thing. How much did you pay for those lessons?
Because I’m pretty sure they could afford a new leotard that fits a teenage girl of a normal size.
And I don’t even think the teachers were that good.
All of mine were snooty, snot-nosed bitches.
And that’s all I said. The truth. That they are a bunch of snooty, snot-nosed bitches. ”
A deep breath fell from my nostrils.
They were a bunch of snooty, snot-nosed bitches.
I only sent her to that school because my parents had already enrolled her before I’d gotten custody.
The tuition could cover a small mortgage, the students had their noses so high in the air, I didn’t know how they saw where they were going, and the teachers were no better.
Old money kind of people. The most obnoxious kind of people.
But Lizzie was my responsibility, which made it my responsibility to correct her. “Language.”
She waved me off and reached for the dressing I had just finished making. “You never answered my question.”
“Which was?”
“Gwen. Is she going to tutor me now?”
“You’re really lucky that she said yes, because if she hadn’t, I wouldn’t be driving you three hours a week to the second-best musical academy in the state.”
She smiled. “Good. Gwen’s fun. And she plays better than those snooty, snot-nosed bitches anyway.”
“If I have to tell you about your language again—”
Another dismissive hand wave. “So. How are you paying her for my lesson? As good as you paid the top musical academy in the state?” She switched to a London accent for that last bit.
“I don’t see how that’s your business.” Bowl of salad in hand, I gestured to the dining area. “Grab that bread off the oven, would you?”
She did, then met me at the antique cherry dining table. The silk-lined seats clunked through the grout lines of the marble tile below. “I mean, are you at least taking her out for a nice dinner as payment?”
“Yeah, we talked about getting something to eat after.” My stomach flipped at the words, and I passed Lizzie the bowl of salad. “You’ve gotta eat some vegetables other than tomatoes, kid. All kinds of nutrients in the leafy greens. Just take them by the fistful if you’ve got to.”
As I instructed, she grabbed a fistful, held it to her mouth, and chewed like a cow on hay. I wasn’t sure if I should roll my eyes or laugh. I did a bit of both. She joined in on the laughter.
When it fell off, she squeezed a piece of chicken between the tongs and laid it on her plate. “Why do you have to be so weird about it?”
“Weird about what?”
“Anytime I bring up that maybe you and Gwen could do something together, or be something together, you try to change the subject.” Slicing at her chicken, she raised a shoulder. “Why? Why can’t you just admit that you like her?”
I didn’t like Gwen. I loved her.
I loved how kind she was to animals. How much her friends mattered to her.
The gentleness in her demeanor, to not step on any toes at the ranch.
And her firmness on almost everything else.
Her eye rolls, her sarcasm, her artistry—all of them.
From the cake decorating, to the piano, to the simple way she walked through a room.
And that red hair. God, I loved that hair.
It was somehow as bright as a fire engine and as deep as a cherry at once.
With a color choice like that, you’d think she’d demand attention in every room she walked into.
But she was more of a wallflower. Quiet, reserved, almost aloof, surveying every move everyone made in every room.
But get her talking about her dog, or equality, or any man that landed a woman at Rhiannon’s Ranch, and then you understood the hair. She didn’t have it for attention. It was a warning. Like a venomous animal whose vibrant complexion said, Stay back. I bite.
The things I loved about her were the very reason it took so much courage to admit my feelings were more than platonic.
She hadn’t even been at the ranch for a year. That meant that less than a year ago, she’d been living in some version of hell.
She never talked about her ex. Never even told me her real name.
So I didn’t know her story. Not entirely.
But I knew the story.
I didn’t want to be a rebound. It could take her far longer to heal, to be ready for what I wanted.
A partner. Someone to move through life with. Someone to come home to, someone to lie beside at night, someone to laugh with.
And I didn’t know if she wanted that, let alone if she was ready for it. Never mind if I was who she’d want it with.
“I like her very much.” I dipped my bread in the garlic infused olive oil. “She’s a great friend, and I’m really lucky to have her in my life.”
Sighing deeply, Lizzie rolled her eyes again. “Whatever. I’ll shut up and act like I don’t have eyes and ears. But all I’m saying is, if you want it to work with her, you gotta be the one to make the move. Gwen spends so much time in her own head, you’ve got to knock if you want her to let you in.”