17. Seventeen
Seventeen
Cassidy
Ishould text Wes.
Having the day off in the house at the end of the driveway has pushed me to insanity. There has been very little conversation about what we're doing—only this incessant need to get closer and push more. It’s the need to see how far I can take it with him.
Because if I’m being honest, I want all the way. Not just sex, but him—his presence, his past, his future. I spent a good deal of time stalking his social media again this morning. Maybe I should just call this limerence, bang it out, and move on.
When it came to Wes’s feelings, I asked for a glowing neon sign to point me in the right direction, and his confession gave me just that. Now that I have the knowledge, I want to act on it.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and I snatch it, hope sizzling out when I see the number on the screen.
I deflate.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, holding the phone between my shoulder and ear. I start the hand mixer on low, circling until the melted butter and sugar run smooth.
“Cassidy,” she starts. No pleasantries. “August has his procedure in a month and a half, and I just called him to ask about when he needs me to give him a ride.”
Of course, it’s about Gus. My mother is who she is, and expecting her to be something different will only be a disservice to me.
I was always jealous of the attention my brother got growing up. It would be insane to say I wasn’t. When Gus got sick, I was so young, and every hospital trip was difficult for my family. My mother took it the hardest, spiraling into constant anxiety.
I remember the ever-present reminders that my brother didn’t have the immune system I had. We would skip outings frequently. I’d wanted to go to the fair, but it had been sacrificed. I wanted to see a movie in theaters, but the close quarters deterred my family.
Resentment eventually breeds acceptance and indifference.
I recognize now that none of that is my brother’s fault, but for a time, I’d been so angry.
Angry at Gus, but even angrier at my mother for not handling it better—for not mustering up the strength to care about her children in equal measure.
At the very least, she could have hidden her true feelings.
If I could hide my true feelings and muster up the energy to be positive, why couldn’t she?
It’s been so long now, I’ve found that I don’t feel any of those things anymore.
Like I said, indifference.
“Oh,” I say, keeping my tone bright. Old Cass comes out as I try to squash any and all tension that may exist before it even reveals itself.
“I’d be happy to take him if you need me to.
” I grab the carton of eggs and crack four into the bowl.
“I am sure Wes would give me the day off if it’s that important, or I can swap days with someone. It shouldn’t be a problem. I can just—”
“It’s not that,” my mom snaps. “He mentioned a girl. Megan? Said you met her.”
I sigh, trying to hide my exasperation. Is it too much to hope that my own mother would call me to check on how I’m doing? Instead, it always circles back to my brother or her—anyone but the daughter she would hardly recognize.
I’ve changed a lot since moving out. At least, I’d hope so.
I’m stronger, more determined. Last week, I wrangled one of the foals who’d run outside and gotten separated from Mom. I didn’t hesitate or ask what the right decision was. I didn’t look to anyone for approval, but rather, I did what I knew needed to be done.
I’ve taken this job. I’ve seen August in a new light—more capable. That one is something I regret not seeing sooner.
And beyond that, I’m putting myself out there with Wesley.
“Yes, I met her. She’s lovely, though I’m not sure what this has to do with driving him to his procedure.”
“That’s just it,” my mom says, and I can hear the worry in her tone.
“Megan is driving him. I’m not sure this girl is going to be equipped to care for him afterward.
We hardly know her, and of course, I have experience with this kind of thing.
I don’t mind helping Gus with this stuff.
It’s the sacrifice I took on willingly when all of this first started. ”
“Mom,” I say, my tone matter-of-fact. I add the flour, cocoa powder, vanilla, and mix the batter with the hand mixer. “Megan isn’t a girl, she’s a grown woman. Besides, you need to let Gus live a little. He’s fine, really. You’ll suffocate him if you don’t let him make decisions for himself—”
“And let him die?” she questions.
“That seems to be a bit dramatic.” I roll my eyes. “I can talk to Gus,” I offer. “But his decision needs to be his. I’m happy to bring him food or check in, but only on his terms.”
I can practically feel my mom vibrating with frustration on the other end of the line.
“I shouldn’t have talked to you about this,” she reprimands.
“You know, Cassidy, you’ve had a good life.
There hasn’t been a lot of struggle for you along the way.
You have two parents who love you, and were able to have hobbies and go out without being cooped up in the hospital. ”
I turn off the hand mixer, my fingers still gently wrapped around the handle as I stare out the kitchen window, watching the German chamomile I planted in the raised bed flow in the wind. She’s still talking, but I’m hardly paying attention.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mom,” I say, my tone hollow. “I’ll ask Gus if he needs any help.”
Without another word, I hang up.
When she calls again, I don’t answer.
Instead, I use a rubber spatula and dump the brownie batter into a glass pan, checking that the oven is preheated before setting the dessert in to bake.
I set a timer for twenty-five minutes and migrate to the couch in the living room.
My eyes burn with tears when I reach for yarn in the basket next to the couch. My therapist said the crocheting can be good. It’s repetitive and calming. She mentioned it being used for anxiety, among other things.
I make a slip knot and start a chain.
In the way of family, it sometimes feels like Gus is the only one I have, and I suppose that should be okay. I should be able to live with it.
After digging my heels in for weeks, I finally start on the blanket he asked for.
By the time the brownies are done and cooling on top of the stove, I hop in the shower, letting the water wash away the rest of my worries.
Ellis invited Lennon and me to go dress shopping with her at the end of July, saying she had to wait for her Aunt B to be available at the same time.
I send her a text about how excited I am, and ask about how the venue hunt is going.
Since I’m not working on the farm today, I opt for a flowy maxi skirt and a cropped tank top. The weather has slowly turned scorchingly hot, and since it’s June, I’m not sure when we will see the mid-sixties again.
I tap my finger on the stove, staring at the brownies I made.
It would be a great excuse—a perfect one, really. I could just deliver the brownies to the office for everyone to eat while I’m off work today.
Maybe I’d run into Wes.
I snap the lid on the glass pan and slip my boots on, carrying the brownies all the way up the drive, around the side of the barn, through the doors, and to the office.
When I don’t see anyone, I pick the pan back up and start peeking into stalls. At the last one, I see Roe bent over with a hoof pick, cleaning Cameo’s feet.
“Hey!” I say, clutching the tray close.
Roe looks up, her hair fighting to escape the bun on top of her head. “Hey, Cass!” she says. “I thought today was your day off.”
I wiggle the tray. “I thought I’d bring some dessert for everyone.”
“Huh,” she says, letting Cameo’s hoof drop to the straw. Roe dusts her hands off on her jeans, leaning against the entrance to the stall as she looks at me, those hazel eyes working to parse apart the real reason I’m here on my day off.
“Wes is at the house,” she offers. “He’s on lunch, and he sure loves brownies. You can check for him there.”
“Oh,” I say, “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
Roe scoffs. “You’d hardly be intruding.” She smiles wide.
“I’m sure Wes would love to see you, and I’ll be busy leading a trail ride for the next few hours.
Should be done by…” She glances at her watch.
“I should be done by two, but there’s always so much to do here.
I might not be up at the house for a while. ”
My cheeks flush, and Roe chuckles, passing me as she heads to the office.
“Well, go on!” she says. “I’m sure Wes would love a sweet treat.”
When I’m finally standing in the center of the aisle, my brownies clutched against my stomach, I stare at the empty barn—the spot where Roe retreated into the office.
It looks like there are no secrets here. Our activities are out in the open, and a part of me likes it. I like that I’m not a secret hidden away, but I’m not being flaunted around the farm either. We get to simply exist as we are.
Shrugging, I walk my way up to the house, unsure if I should knock or if I should—
“Hey.”
Wes appears behind me at the bottom of the porch steps, wiping his hands on a towel. “Mud needed more tick treatment,” he says. “I pulled at least ten off him yesterday.”
I chuckle, lifting the pan of brownies a bit. “I brought treats,” I say. “Roe said you might be interested in—”
Wes walks up the stairs in two strides, standing one step below me so we are eye level. The only thing keeping him a safe distance from me are the brownies, and I now wish I had never made them if only because they’re separating us from getting closer.
His eyes scan my face, golden in the afternoon light. The cowboy hat he’s wearing is a nice break from the ballcap he’s opted for the past few weeks.
I nod toward him, just slightly. “Nice hat, Cowboy.”
Wes grins.
“Do you want to come inside?” he asks. “I was just about to eat lunch, and I’d love to have some company.”
Warmth blooms in my stomach, boundless like a field of blooming dandelions in spring. “Sure,” I say with a smile. “I’d like that a lot.”