Chapter 45
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
I must be a sociopath.
I panicked. Alienated Austin’s beloved sister. Picked a fight with him.
Two feet into this place, and I lost it. I was already lightheaded, but then his perfect sister came frolicking out, too excited to see him to wait three minutes for us to get inside. Something snapped.
And now I have to go inside and pretend I know how to be … what? “Part of That World” pops in my head, but I couldn’t sing if I wanted to.
Devoted family aside, this place is nothing like I pictured.
No wheat. No bonnets to speak of. But cows.
A two-story house. Red brick, ivy crawling up the walls, a chimney that belongs in a book of nursery rhymes.
And the yard—can you even call it a yard?
There’s so much land around the house that this place couldn’t exist in Pasadena.
Not even A-listers have this kind of lot.
It’s the kind of place a painter would escape to for a year, trying to capture its aura. Like van Gogh did in France.
And the cows. Mooing.
I don’t belong here. It’s as foreign to me as, I don’t know, Bangladesh.
Pine and cedar trees as far as the eye can see, as if they’re weeds instead of thirty-foot trees.
Enough tropical plants bordering the house to impress this SoCal native.
And Austin everywhere. A firepit. A fishing pond.
We passed his favorite creek and rope swing on the way here.
Mabel’s Dance Hall is just down the road.
So many things I’ve grown to love, but suddenly they don’t feel like my memories to claim.
They’re his. They’re theirs. I’m an intruder, an impostor.
It won’t all fit—I can’t seem to cram it into my brain at once. It’s all so Austin, so beautiful, and yet I desperately need to get out of here.
The world goes fuzzy.
Austin steps inside, dragging me behind him.
Please help me. I don’t want to screw it up. I don’t know why I’m falling apart right now.
The smell hits me. Not just cornbread. Imagine if cornbread were baked with twenty years of laughter and board games and inside jokes, mixed with dad washing the dishes while Mom helps with homework. Must taste different too.
Bangladesh. Like a figment of my imagination. Too good to be true.
Mom pops to mind. What would she think? She’d smooth her skirt and slide back in the car to protect her Celine boots. She’d distrust it—too wild, too unpredictable. Like me, yet …
“Sweetheart! Please come in! I’m Tracy!” Austin’s mom leans in for a hug when I’m barely two steps inside, and I pull myself together enough to hug her back, trying to maintain a tiny bit of personal space.
I’m so much taller than her that I crunch against her hairspray.
And I have to pat-pat the back of her floral dress to keep my side of this century-long hug from seeming like a rejection.
These people are so affectionate to strangers.
Only Austin gets hugs this long from me. Period.
She finally pulls back, and I stifle a relieved sigh.
“Aren’t you just as purty as a pitcher!”
I try to thank her, but she’s already saying, “Clint! Sophie’s here!”
“I see that, my dear.”
No time to brace before I’m hugged again.
No luck on the handshake plan. He gives me plenty of space, but his Austin-sized hand pats my shoulder like he has time—like I’m worth pausing for.
Unwelcome tears threaten. I step back and see he’s even taller and darker than Austin.
Blue-collar strong—I thought he was an engineer?
—and still trim. His eyes are kind, like Austin’s.
His smile easy, like he’s never needed to prove anything to anyone.
My dad would eat this guy alive. In a courtroom and otherwise.
Janie stands near the edge of the room, assessing. Gorgeous without a touch of makeup. Wet, curly brown hair stuffed into a clip. If you uploaded a picture of Kit and Austin to one of those weird photo generators online, Janie would be the result.
With a fortifying breath, I open my arms to Janie and shrug. I don’t need to incite World War III with the Cleaver family over a rejected greeting. She brightens and gives me a no-nonsense hug—quick but sincere. The smell of coconut and effortless perfection drifts off her.
I can picture it—Austin, someday, with a little girl on his shoulders who’s the spitting image of Bella’s daughter in Twilight. The child, not the creepy baby. Obviously.
Austin makes it through his round of intense greetings.
He was just here a few weeks ago, but they both get a hug as big as I ever do.
“Mama. Pops.” An additional arm squeeze for Janie.
“Munchkin.” He ambles to the stove, cuts cornbread from the pan, tilts his head back to catch the square in his mouth. Crumbs everywhere.
So happy here.
Mrs. Scott marches over and swats his hand. Smack.
I jump.
“Out of my kitchen. You know better.” The sheer happiness in her eyes … My parents never swatted my hand or spanked me a single time. Around here you get a swat when your parents are thrilled with you?
I glance past Janie to the living room. We’re in the sticks, and I realize I’d expected an old trailer, or at least some peeling wallpaper or grease stains.
Not here. It’s tasteful. Homey. This house isn’t just lived in, it’s loved.
A pretty staircase. A loft. Somewhere upstairs, a chime gongs, marking the hour.
“Austin,” Mrs. Scott says.
I jerk again. No idea why. But I drop my half-twirled hair and awkwardly clasp my hands together.
“Give Sophie a tour, would you? And then you can feed the cows their treat.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Feed the cows? Feed them? I neutralize my face. “Sure! Sounds good!”
Austin flinches. He knows me too well.
When I meet Mrs. Scott’s cheery, expectant gaze, it dims somewhat. She doesn’t like something she sees.
He grabs our bags and tilts his head toward the stairs, kicking off his shoes before stepping on the carpet. I follow suit. These stairs feel off. Shorter, maybe. Like I should be taking them two at a time.
At the top, he points at a large room painted a grayish blue—like his eyes.
“That was my room,” he says, turning left.
“Wait, can I see it?”
“’Kay.”
I take in every inch. Cabinets line the right wall beneath enormous windows overlooking the field. Pond. Cows. The cabinet tops form a window seat—perfect for curling up with pillows. A partial wall backs the bed, hiding a tucked-away desk and bookshelf. A random sink and mirror in the corner.
“It’s not really what it looked like. I took everything off the walls when I moved out. Boxed up my stuff.” He shrugs, almost shy. “I thought my parents would want it as a guest room.”
He would.
I find his arm. A touch isn’t enough, so I wrap mine around his like it’s a life preserver.
He kisses my head.
Through the window, geese float beside a white gazebo. Like a postcard.
“Did you ever sit here?”
“Yeah, this became my morning spot. I’d prop a pillow here and read my Bible and pray. The sun rises over the pond.” He points casually, like it’s a minor detail and not a devastatingly beautiful addition to his incomparable childhood. Like the earth isn’t shifting under my feet.
Of course he’d want to drink sweet tea on the porch. Why would he want to escape from this level of perfection? People escape to this kind of place.
“Ready to move on?”
“Not yet.”
“Wanna talk?”
“Not yet.”
I don’t know what I’d say. I still don’t know what’s wrong with me. Try to name what you’re feeling, Dr. Shannon would say. Start wherever you can.
He watches me, kind but slow blinking, like he’s fighting to stay vertical.
“You did mention you have cows.”
“Yep.” As if that’s the most normal thing in the world.
“Do they have names? Do you eat them?”
He chuckles softly. “They have names, yeah. We don’t eat them. My parents keep them for the agricultural tax exemption. Sometimes we do have to sell one to market though. That’s the worst. Our cows are more like pets.”
“Pets.” My dad would never. Efficiency alone.
“And they’re hungry, so we’d better wrap up the tour.”
“They’re hungry.”
“Soph,” he says. “You’re repeating words like you’re shell shocked. You’re safe here. This isn’t a war zone.” He brushes my arm, and I almost believe him.
Move my feet.
Cows.
The upstairs is open to the living room below, and the loft upstairs holds an older sectional couch and a TV. We stop between two bedrooms—Janie’s and the office, Austin tells me. His parents’ room is downstairs.
It’s just a house.
Not a mansion. Not a Mediterranean villa. I have plenty of friends with nicer houses, nicer things. But here… it feels different. Like affection has been painted onto the walls, like the carpet fibers harbor peace and harmony. I’m indescribably … sad. And freaked out.
Names for my feelings.
Thank you for that.
We walk downstairs, and I pull my sneakers back on.
Austin calls out that we’re going to get the bread, and I follow dumbly as he leads us through the garage.
He slides into a pair of filthy work boots and offers his tiny mom’s.
I decline them. We step outside along a brick path neatly pressed into the ground.
My clean sneakers shuffle along after him.
“Your cows don’t eat, like, hay?”
“They eat plenty of hay and grass, yeah. But Mama also gives them an afternoon treat. Feed bread and old snack cakes and things she gets from H-E-B. These are not grass-fed cows.” His deep chuckle—my heart warms a degree on impact.
“It’s all expired. Since the store can’t sell them to people anymore, they’re dirt cheap.
But the cows are pleased.” He pushes up his sleeves, and it grounds me even more.
It’s just normal Austin. Talking about his cows.
“The cows are pleased.” Oops, I’m repeating again. “Do you milk them?”
“Nope.”
We reach a barn on the other side of the house, away from the paved road. He raises a hand at the door. “Hold up.” After disappearing inside, he waves me in. “Come on in. Snakes get in here sometimes.”
I shudder and watch where I step.
Brightening, he says, “Check this out.” His voice is suddenly light, like a little kid. "Honey Buns for days."
“What’s a Honey Bun?”
“What’s a Honey Bun?” If he weren’t laughing, I’d think I offended him. “Only the greatest processed pastry in the world.” He rifles through a grocery bag. “Ooh, this one’s only a month expired. Try it?”
Oh, he’s serious.
“It’s expired.”
“Eh, it’s fine.” He rips open the plastic as we walk toward the back of the house. His arm juts out in front of me, a half-open Honey Bun in his hand. “Electric fence.”
He angles the yellow handle expertly, lifting the wire for me to pass under before stepping through himself.
Bangladesh.
And now we’re in a cow pen? There are the cows. The actual cows. Enormous actual cows.
Austin hands me the Honey Bun, and I take a tentative bite. A stale donut. I get the idea.
I hate how lame I am right now.
“Hold it out in an open palm and they’ll come pig out.”
I position the stale Honey Bun on my hand, stiff and still, as cows approach.
Austin admirably holds back a laugh at my grimace. “Don’t worry, Soph. These girls are sweethearts. That’s Roxanne there, and this is Eileen. Named after songs.”
A smile starts in my cheeks. “Aw.”
Roxanne sticks her giant tongue out and swipes the Honey Bun out of my palm. I squeal. Austin chuckles and brushes the back of my head.
I gape as Eileen nuzzles into his side.
“Hey, girl.” That voice. So soft. He scratches under her chin. “Missed you.”
She’s precious. Gentle. Trusting.
We’re supposed to feed them the whole bag and half the loaf, and I actually get the hang of it.
Warmth and goodness radiate off these cows, like they’re a microcosm of this place.
Named, loved, wanted—is it weird to say they’re the animal version of Austin?
He wasn’t just raised in peace. He ushers it in. I thought I knew him, but he’s … more.
Eileen inhales another pastry, and my heart warms another degree.
“This is a weird kind of therapy,” I say.
“Hundred percent.”
Somehow I find myself singing to them—quiet and tender, their namesake songs. And Austin relaxes fully for the first time in days.