Chapter 5
Lark
“You’re serious?” Jeremy asks from across the table in the Patty Melt Diner, owned by Miss Patty and Mr. Bob. “You’re ending things? Over this?”
I figured a public place might be a little better location to have this conversation rather than anywhere near my brothers.
I’m really not all that great at confrontation, and all of this is so awkward. “It’s more than just the storm, Jeremy. We’re not interested in the same things, and I really don’t fit in with your friends or family.”
I don’t bring up the fact that my friends can’t stand him. They think he’s pompous and spoiled, which maybe he is, but he was never high and mighty, which I liked. Jeremy and I definitely aren’t compatible on paper, but that didn’t bother me.
What bothers me is the way he thinks I should want more than just my farm life. What bothers me is that he would not swim through a flood to save me—he wouldn’t even try.
“Who cares? I love you, Lark.”
The lies I told myself. The excuses I made. It wasn’t until I took the last week, since the storm, to see the holes in our relationship. Ones that were way too big to plug. When you’re fundamentally different in every way, there’s no bridge you can build to find common ground.
“And I love you enough to want you to be happy. To find a girl who loves the same things as you. Who you can start a family with and not fight over every decision she makes. You and I would never have that. I want my kids to be rough and tumble, to grow up riding horses, getting dirty, and knowing the farm life. Is that the same future you see?”
I already know it’s not. I’m hoping that I can speak to his more pragmatic side.
“You were my future.” That’s sad. My heart aches at the way his eyes go soft. He reaches his hand out to me. “Lark, please.”
Shit. I’m so not good at this. Like a dummy, I place my hand in his, but I need to stay strong. I know that he isn’t going to be the man I marry. It’s almost cruel to keep trying to convince myself otherwise.
I squeeze his fingers. “I think we both knew we were trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. I think you’re a wonderful man. You’re smart, kind, and some woman is going to come into your life, and you’re going to see that she is nothing like me.”
“You’re sure?”
“I am,” I say on a breath. It carries both relief and a touch of sadness.
Jeremy is a good guy, and even if this isn’t easy, I know it’s the right choice.
We’re not a passionate couple. He doesn’t make my heart flutter when he walks into a room, but he is steady.
I wasn’t worried about him going to the bar and cheating, like my last asshole boyfriend did.
Jeremy was different, and while I think it was a good kind of different, maybe it was just too different.
There’s never been a single night when I wake up dreaming of him, but I dream of another man almost every damn night since he took me home, brought my truck back to me, and made my heart race.
He releases my hands and slides back in his chair. “I wish I could change your mind.”
My lips turn up to a sad smile. “I wish you could too.”
But we both know he can’t.
“Momma, let me get that.” I rush over and grab the casserole dish that’s positioned almost ninety degrees the wrong way in her hand.
“Thank you, sweetie.” Her soft voice trembles at the end.
It’s been a rough year for her. She fell about six months ago, and my tough, warrior momma would usually bounce back, but there’s been nothing like that.
She walks slower, the pain is constant, and a month ago she suffered what we believe was a ministroke.
“You’re welcome. Here, come sit, I can take care of setting the table.”
“No, no, you’ve been out working with the horses all day. I can do it.”
The stubborn warrior lives on.
I learned a long time ago not to argue with her, but I have my ways of getting around her when I need to.
“All right, Momma. How about I just bring the plates to the table then?”
She pats my cheek, her warmth seeping into my soul as she smiles. “You’re a wonderful girl, Lark Gatlin. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
“I won’t.”
The two of us work in the kitchen which holds so many memories from my childhood.
Momma teaching me to bake sourdough, feeding the starter every morning, and then having terrible bread when I didn’t follow her directions.
The cabinet that hangs a little crooked because Ryan thought he could fix it for her and…
didn’t, but she won’t let anyone touch it because it’s perfect the way it is.
Not a thing has changed in this kitchen, contrary to Daddy telling her he’d do some upgrades. She loves her oak cabinets, brownish linoleum floor, and Formica countertops. To her, they’re home, and it’s not the things that make a home—it’s the people in it.
We get her famous roast beef, mashed potatoes, corn, stuffing, and sweet rolls out onto the table. My mother believes that feeding this family a strong, hearty meal is necessary to keep us going.
Ryan and Deacon think it’s a way to keep them both living on the ranch with them, not that either wants to move since there’s no real reason to.
I stay because my parents are getting old, and while Deacon and I stay in the main house, he’s really not helpful.
I help with the cooking and the cleaning.
Momma goes to ring the dinner bell. Yes, we still have a damn bell, but before she can pull the cord back, the two bottomless pits known as my brothers come running in, like dogs who smelled the food bin open.
“You two are really a mess,” I say as my mother laughs softly.
“Are my boys hungry?” she asks, pushing her cheek out to them so they can give her a kiss on it.
Deacon nods and then does just that. “Always.”
Ryan goes to her other side, kissing her other cheek. “When you cook, we know we’re eating good. It’s only when you let Lark in the kitchen that it gets dicey.”
I stick my tongue out. “Shut up.”
However, they’re not lying. I’m really not good at domestic stuff. My heart is in the horses, though I try.
“Make me, Tornado.”
“Momma,” I say, turning to her. “Ryan is being mean, and Deacon told me I’m stupid.”
My mother gasps. “Boys.”
I grin, knowing she’s about to lay in on them. It doesn’t matter that we’re all in our thirties. She’s in charge, and she doesn’t put up with them being rude.
Deacon lifts his hands. “I didn’t say a word!”
“You were thinking it,” I say, crossing my arms.
“Now I am.”
Momma claps her hands. “Enough, you three. Go wash your hands before you sit down at my table.”
The two of them walk off to the bathroom, and then she nudges her head toward me.
“I already did.”
“Do it again, Lark Elaine.”
Now I’m in trouble. I wait for my brothers to come out before attempting to enter. The last time the three of us were in that room trying to wash our hands at the same time, I had to change my pants because they splashed me so much it looked like I peed them.
I swear, it doesn’t matter how old any of us are. When we’re together, we’re ten.
So basically all the time.
Ryan doesn’t live in the main house anymore. He built a small cabin that is rustic in every sense of the word on the back edge of the property, but his culinary expertise is Pop-Tarts and cereal, so he’s basically here all the time.
There’s another cabin that Carter owns, but since he’s stationed in Florida, it’s vacant. He offered to let Deacon live there while he was gone, but Deacon stays where there’s a steady source of food and comfort. Which means Deacon will never leave.
When they both exit, dry by some miracle, I go in.
This house is literally a time capsule. It’s clean, well maintained, but dated by every measure of the word. The bathroom is very—green. The toilet, tub, and sink are a minty color that matches absolutely nothing, but my mother says it reminds her of a peridot, and she loves it.
When I get back to the table, everyone is seated. We take each other’s hands, and my father prays. Then, before the n in Amen is finished, Ryan and Deacon are grabbing handles to serve themselves.
I swear, these two act like they’ve never been fed before.
Daddy shakes his head but waits until they’re done and grabs for his. “I heard from Carter today.”
Momma smiles. “He called the house phone too.”
We’re one of those families that still have a landline. It’s adorable. The only calls that come through are telemarketers and my brother. Momma’s cell phone is off unless she’s leaving the house.
“He sounds good,” Daddy says.
“Did he say when he’d be coming for a visit?” Momma asks. “He didn’t mention it when we talked.”
I roll my eyes with my head ducked so no one will see. We all know that Carter has no damn intention of coming home. He hates this town, hates this land, hates the idea of being here, but won’t ever break Momma’s heart, so he lies to her about coming for a visit “soon.”
Daddy shakes his head. “No, didn’t mention it. I’ll remember to ask the next time he calls.”
Daddy doesn’t ask because he knows the answer and doesn’t want to have to tell her.
Looks like I’m going to have to lay into Carter myself.
My mother takes a bite of her food, and then we each tell her about our day. I leave out the fact that I broke up with Jeremy. I don’t feel like hearing any opinions on that right now.
My father clears his throat. “Jimmy went over to Heartstone Ranch to issue a strong warning,” he says as he places his dish down.
“Good, I hope they arrest them,” Ryan says. “The trouble they’re causing sets us all back.”
I focus on the food, knowing if I defend them, it’ll cause a fight, but also knowing I can keep my mouth shut for only so long.
Eat your food, Lark. Eating means you can’t talk, because Momma will have you in your room if you talk with food in your mouth.
I take a bite and chew very, very slowly. “They belong in jail,” Deacon tacks on. “Cutting the wires to the pasture is a crime. Vandalism for one, and I’m sure we can find other charges, like reckless endangerment of animals.”
My father nods. “That whole family is rotten. They don’t do a damn thing if it’s not for their own gain.”
Quiet. Keep quiet.
I try to chew, but there’s nothing left. I scoop up another bite, hoping I can get it shoveled in before someone else says something.
Deacon agrees. “They wouldn’t know what kindness was if it hit them in the face. The entire family is garbage.”
I quickly put some mashed potatoes in.
“The worst is Tristan. He acts so high and mighty, but he’s a piece of shit,” Ryan says with a scoff.
“Language,” Mother scolds.
“Sorry, Momma, but you know they’re worthless and cruel. They are incapable of being respectable, and the fact is, they get away with everything and do nothing good in this world.”
That’s it. I can’t keep my mouth shut another second.
“Tristan is the one who helped me on the side of the road in that storm the other night. He pulled my truck off the road so it didn’t get hit, in the pouring rain, and then drove me here, making sure I got home safe.
I’m not saying the Stones are great, but they’re not cruel.
He could’ve left me there, and he didn’t,” I say, slamming my fork down.
“We’re no better than them, sitting around here talking about how they do nothing good in the world.
He deserves at least some measure of gratitude for being nice. ”
Four sets of eyes turn to me. Great. Now I’ve done it.