Chapter 5 Heston
HESTON
My ability to focus is nonexistent today. After we started unpacking storage boxes, it only took me thirty seconds to break two ornaments, so I’ve been banned from “helping” with any other decorations that might be deemed breakable.
I’m not much of a hand with stuff like this. But apparently, making sure the bunkhouse had more festive charm in time for Christmas in five days was important. So, I showed up.
My mom and little sister decorated back at the homestead earlier this month.
They blew up my notifications with pictures and videos after putting everything up.
It was easy to spot my dad standing proudly in the background of most of them with a smile on his face.
Now, I know good and damn well that man cares very little about decorating.
But if it matters to his family, he’s going to do it with a world-class attitude and a “yes, dear.”
The best I can do today is “you got it” and keep my grunts to a minimum.
The holiday cheer is everywhere, but I just don’t feel it.
Hell, I don’t feel like doing anything other than working outside until I’m sweating and there’s a burn in my side.
It’s the only diversion that works. Like every other day, I spent most of the morning doing just that.
But now, I’m wrapping a long, scratchy green thing around the handrail on the stairs to the loft. It looks pitiful.
If there’s any consolation to decking the halls against my will, it’s the little amusement I get from Tripp making a tragedy of the tree.
He’s been more worried about flexing his arms than making the ornaments look halfway decent while Mesa watches him, her bottom lip pulled tightly into her mouth.
I thought he hated Christmas, but he turns and smirks at her every other minute as if he’s thrilled about it.
I snort, and Mesa cuts me with a sharp look. Like the supportive girlfriend she is, she drops her attempt at gift wrapping and steps behind Tripp to loop her arms around his waist.
Good for him. No part of me is insincere when I say I’m happy for the guy. I don’t get caught up in thinking about shit like happy endings, but if anyone deserves one, it’s him.
I step back, giving up on the garland. The fireplace crackles. A half-lit, crooked mess of lights covers the table. Even the scuffed pine floors are littered with things like little Santa cowboy hats, giant fake snowflakes, and enough velvet ribbon to wrap around the whole damn town.
It all looks very . . . warm.
But I feel so cold, I worry my bones might snap at any minute.
It’s annoying that I can’t seem to enjoy jack shit anymore. I’d gotten pretty good at accepting that about myself until last weekend. Running into Hattie, even just a glimpse through a window, reminds me of the version of reality where she was mine.
I’d be lying if I said that seeing her face-to-face after all this time didn’t leave me with a flicker of optimism. And yet, I’m frustrated with myself for not knowing what to do or where to go from here.
If she’d looked the same as I remembered, maybe I wouldn’t be dwelling on every detail of our half-reunion.
Her appearance was unchanged for the most part, but it was her body language that I barely recognized.
Before she looked away from me, I saw her weight shift back like she expected something bad to happen at any second.
Not like before, when she’d lean into chaos. When she’d lean into me.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t pick up on a single thought in her head. The girl I knew would flinch or freeze dramatically, maybe even drop her jaw. It was all wrong.
She sanded herself down into something softer. Less reactive and emotional. Less messy or human.
Less mine.
I’m sure she wasn’t surprised when I walked away instead of going inside and chasing after her.
I wanted to talk to her. I really did. But the stone lodged in my throat had never felt so heavy and impossible to choke down.
The thought of saying the wrong thing or having to watch her run away was enough to nauseate me. Walking away was all I could do.
That doesn’t mean I haven’t spent every bit of the last seven days working up the courage to go find her again. I’ll say something this time.
I scrape a hand down my face, angry all over again. The green shit on the stair railing is sloppy work, but I leave it, and stalk to my room before the red creeping up my neck turns to a full-blown crash out.
I don’t bother closing the door behind me, passing my bed on my way to the small walk-in closet.
I’m far from materialistic, so the cramped space works just fine for my boring rotation of shirts and work jeans.
Soon, I’ll need a bigger safe, though. The new one will have to go somewhere with more room, instead of being backed against the closet wall.
I type in the code on the keypad. After a beep, it buzzes and clicks as the magnetic lock releases. Four bands and a manila folder slide out the second I swing the door open.
“Shit,” I mutter.
I don’t have time to reorganize the cluttered mess inside, so I toss the money that fell out back on top of the pile of cash.
Out of habit, I skim over the rest of the safe’s contents to make sure they’re still there.
Satisfied, I firmly grip the folder in my hand and lock everything else back up.
After opening it and remembering I’m still waiting on a permit, I toss it on the bed and walk to the kitchen in search of yesterday’s mail.
My mind goes back to Hattie for the millionth time today. I think my time of waiting around is officially over. My gut is telling me to quit sulking and make a move. I try to sift through a list of options, but no matter how many scenarios I come up with, each one seems more stupid than the last.
Just call her.
Sure, if she hadn’t blocked my number.
Drive to her house.
Except if she’s moved out of the house on her dad’s ranch, then I have no idea where she lives now. And if not, I’d be greeted at the gates with a double barrel to the chest.
I shake my head and pass by Tripp at the end of the hall.
My eyes land on the pile of unopened mail next to the fridge.
It’s mundane at first, as I sort through the envelopes in search of any with my name on it.
My movements slow when I reach a light cream-colored one with a textured feel to it.
Above the address, there is no recipient name.
It simply says current resident. I turn it over and see a gold seal on the back.
“The fuck is this?” I say, pinching my brows together.
Gage appears out of nowhere and snatches it right out of my hand. “It’s nothing.”
I shrug. Even though he moved out of the bunkhouse and lives with Blythe at their own place now, he still gets all kinds of random mail here.
I flip through the rest of the pile for a moment before really processing the way Gage quietly sighed with relief after taking the envelope from me.
Who was it from? I lift my head to frown at the cabinet above the counter before spinning around.
At times, being big is inconvenient. But right now, I’m grateful for it. With no more than three long strides, I trap Gage right before he opens the patio door. He’s holding it behind his back, which does nothing but heighten my curiosity.
“Hand it over.”
Gage isn’t scared of me and doesn’t cower. Despite knowing that I’ll easily overpower him, he’d rather scrap it out than just give me the damn envelope. Not a good sign. My jaw is throbbing from biting down on my molars.
I step toward him. My lips part for a final demand before I plan to pry it from his fingers, but a blur of red hair whizzes behind him and disappears a second later.
Gage curses under his breath. “Jesus, Mesa.”
I ignore him and bound straight for her. One key lesson I’ve come to learn about our crew is that four things will likely never change: I’ve always been the strongest. Gage is the smart one. Warren is the nicest. And Tripp? He’s twice as fast as any of us without even trying.
He runs, scoops up his girl before she’s even made it halfway through the living room, and eyes the piece of mail.
I feel good about my chances when Tripp gives her a questioning look.
Fools in love. He’s focused on her and figuring out why she’s running away, pausing all other movements long enough for me to put my hand on his shoulder.
I lean over her and take hold of the envelope for myself.
Whether Gage has given up or plans to pounce on my back, I don’t know. I pay him and everybody else no mind. Not after finally seeing the return address.
I stare for a minute. Tish is a smaller town than Westridge.
It’s not much of a town at all, actually, and I only know one person from there.
The words look hand-lettered, curling across the paper with fancy swirls.
The worst possibility for what this is comes to mind, but no .
. . there is no fucking way that’s what this is.
My fingers lift the seal, but it tears the entire back of the envelope.
Now that it’s mostly destroyed, I indulge in tearing the rest of it to pieces until the scraps float down to my boots, and there’s nothing but a single piece of cardstock in my hand, decorated with green text and white flowers.
Two words seem to lift from the card, begging me to notice them first. My eyes dart between them.
Wedding.
Hattie.
I drop it almost instantly, like the luxury paper was dipped in poison. Whatever the rest of the invitation says, I’ll never know. I saw what I needed to see.
We’re supposed to finish putting up Christmas decorations and then have what Blythe refers to as “family dinner.” They’ll have to do all of that without me because I couldn’t care fucking less about either of those things as I burst through the front door.
The thunderous sound of it slamming behind me echoes through the front porch.
This is all a misunderstanding. A prank, maybe. I force fresh oxygen into my lungs and hold it there long enough to slow my heart rate before pushing it out again.
After sliding into the driver’s seat of my truck and firing up the engine, I stare at the steering wheel.
A cruel clarity drifts through the silence of the cab.
When I realized what was in that envelope, I almost forgot that she isn’t mine anymore.
Right away, I wanted to feel betrayed. But it’s not my place to lose my cool over her moving on.
I don’t hate her for it, and I damn sure don’t blame her, either.
The need to talk to her is burning a hole through my chest. I rub at it while bending over the center console to flip open the glove box. The cigarette is trapped between my teeth, and I’m pulling out of the drive less than a minute later.
After more than two years of no contact, and just as long wishing I could communicate like a normal fucking human, I think the prideful jig between us is finally up.
If she’s really getting married, and there’s not a shot in hell that we could ever get back to what we had, then I need to hear the words straight from her own mouth, not the sick voice in my head.
The tires crunch as I peel out onto the gravel road.
I’ve almost ripped the steering wheel off with the force of my grip when a text notification dings.
It’s a message from Savannah, which isn’t a common occurrence unless it’s about something important. I pick up speed without replying to her once I realize she sent me an address.