4. Bliss
Bliss
Zane: You can have the pasture. Marry me?
Ah, and they say romance is dead. What a way to start a text thread. Normally, I never have to hide Zane’s texts or phone calls. They’re almost always work-related or very generic questions about barbecues and get-togethers.
This text doesn’t fall into either of those categories.
I quickly turn my phone face down so Mom doesn’t see it.
I’m sitting at the bar in my parents’ house, watching Mom mix up a batch of drop biscuits on the counter in front of me. If she saw a text from Zane, asking me to marry him, she’d create a Pinterest inspiration board and then book an appointment at a bridal gown boutique.
She can’t wait for me to get married, and even worse, she especially loves Zane. She calls him “that sweet boy Zane.” Which is why I can’t let her see the text on my phone.
“Your sister called and said that Addison is starting ballet,” Mom says as she flings chunks of biscuit dough onto a pan. Little puffs of flour float into the air each time she tosses the dough down.
My older sister, Briar, lives in Texas with her husband and their four-year-old daughter.
It’s one of Mom’s biggest life disappointments that her first grandchild lives so far away.
She video calls them nearly every day, and Briar told me their house has been overtaken by every toy imaginable because Mom is always buying Addison gifts.
“Addison taking ballet classes will be so adorable. Briar didn’t tell me that when I talked to her yesterday.”
Mom sighs. “She sent me a video of her dancing around the living room in a tutu.”
“You should go visit her for her first recital.” I risk a glance at my phone, but it’s still face down. I haven’t felt the counter buzz, so Zane must have decided that one text was good enough.
Mom pauses her whirlwind of biscuit-making to think about it. “Not a bad idea. But she said it will be in June.” She ends this with a sad tone.
June, when we mark all our late spring calves. One of our busiest times of the year.
“Mom, she’s your first grandchild. You’ve worked a lot of calves in your life, and there will be plenty more … so if you want to go watch her recital, you should go!”
She smiles at me. “Sometimes, you have good ideas.”
“Sometimes?” I exclaim. “You mean all the time.” My hand hovers over my phone as I wonder if I dare turn it over and text Zane back.
“Briar has been asking me to come see them …”
“Mom, buy the tickets. I’ll be here to help Dad. You know everyone shows up to help anyway. Last year, Max and Nash were here to help with the calves.”
“And Zane!” Mom adds. “Now, that boy is strong. Make sure to call him for this year, too.”
Zane is strong. Even if my mom thinks she’s trying to matchmake, it’s practical to invite Zane.
I once watched him pick up a four-hundred-pound calf and put it in the trailer.
I still think about that moment and wonder about the logistics of it.
Zane himself is only half that. But every bit of him is solid.
I shake my head as I realize I’m daydreaming about Zane again. He’s been at the front of my mind for the entire last year. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that man. And it’s going to stop.
Today. Right after I answer his text.
“Do you remember Hanson Miller?” Mom asks as she puts the biscuits in the oven.
“You mean Ron Miller’s son?” I ask.
Ron Miller grows some timothy grass hay on the edge of the valley.
“Yes, his son’s coming back home to help run the farm.”
“Oh, well, that’s good. Last time I talked to Ron, he’d been having some back problems.” I turn the phone over and open my messages. Zane’s question is staring me in the face. I scroll past his name and open the text thread from Charlie.
Charlie: Why have two different people asked me when we’re going to have a baby?! Do I look pregnant to you???
Bliss: You don’t look pregnant. But you’ve been married for longer than three days. Everybody works fast around here.
Charlie: Did I time-travel back to the 1800’s when I moved out here?
Bliss: Since my mom is trying to get me to agree to an arranged marriage, you might be on to something.
Charlie: SHE WHAT?
Mom clears her throat loudly. I set the phone down and look up at her. “As I was saying, Hanson is single now,” Mom says as she looks at me with raised eyebrows.
I frantically hit the button on my phone to turn the screen black again so she won’t see Charlie and my conversation. “Single now? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that maybe the two of you should go on a date when he gets here. Ron and I were talking about you two when I ran into him at the store.” Mom takes a rag from the sink and wipes her biscuit-making counter.
“Mom, I haven’t seen Hanson Miller in probably seven years.”
“I know, but I might’ve mentioned something to Ron, and he thought it was a great idea. And he mentioned something to Hanson, and I might have set you up on a date.” She pastes a bright smile on her face as though that will convince me.
“Mother,” I say with a sharp tone.
“Now, don’t be mad. Don’t be mad. I just want you to have some fun and see if you two hit it off now that you’re both adults.”
“I thought that Hanson got married.”
“Well, he’s not married anymore,” she says with another big smile.
I suck in my top lip and bite it to keep from screaming in frustration.
“And how recent was this divorce?” I finally manage to say in a relatively moderate tone.
“Well, I guess you could ask him on your date.”
“Does Hanson even know about the date?”
“Oh, yes, he agreed. He remembered you right away.”
Never a good sign, I think to myself.
I was a flat-out menace in high school, and it was a small school.
If there was a prank being pulled, I was either the instigator or the muscle.
I didn’t let any of the boys get away with thinking girls couldn’t do anything.
In fact, I have a very clear memory of Hanson telling me that girls couldn’t drive a stick shift.
He was so sure of himself that he handed me the keys to his pickup—which was a manual.
Which I then proceeded to hide from him five miles down the road.
My sister Briar picked me up after I parked his truck in his grandpa’s hay shed.
If Hanson remembers me, it’s probably not fondly.
“And if that doesn’t work, we have a sales rep who’s gonna be staying with us in a couple of weeks. He’s young. He’s handsome. He works in the local area. He only lives forty-five minutes from here.”
“Then why is he staying here with us?” I grit out.
My mother has invited more strange men to stay with us…
It frustrates me to no end. She’s an optimist for sure and believes everyone has the best intentions.
I have Dad’s more suspicious nature and don’t trust people until they’ve proven themselves to me.
I’m especially not going to invite a stranger to come stay under my roof with me when I have my own house.
“Because he has an early morning meeting in town.”
“So, he couldn’t get up forty-five minutes earlier and drive there?” I ask.
Mom busies herself, flipping the chicken-fried steak on the stove. “I was just telling you the schedule. No pressure.”
The schedule involves a young-ish man staying in our house and probably sharing my bathroom. Our house isn’t huge. It’s a nice-sized three-bedroom, two-bath, but when you add a stranger to the mix, it feels tiny.
My mother is relentless about my falling in love and getting married. You would think I was an old Regency spinster and still living at home, a burden to my parents.
You know, usually when you watch a movie or read a book, you identify with the main character. You want to feel like you’ve got that main-character energy. Unfortunately, my mom makes me feel like I’ve got Charlotte Lucas energy. No prospects. No money.
Maybe it’s time I find my own Mr. Collins.