Chapter 13
HESTON
“Cat Ballou?” Missy suggests, holding up the VHS tape for me to see.
I nod. “Solid pick.”
The trick to Christmas movie marathons is going along with my sister’s first idea, as long as it’s not Seven Brides for Seven Brothers again, even if it means sitting through one of the other musical western comedies that she’s so attached to.
Otherwise, we’d spend the whole afternoon comparing options instead of actually getting to watch anything.
The opening credits play, and before Missy pins me with a look for not paying attention to the film, I subtly open the message notification on my phone.
Gage
One of you took my plate of food while I was in the bathroom. Count your days.
Warren
We’re sitting in the same house right now. Is the group chat really necessary?
Gage
I’m trying to handle this privately. I doubt my wife would appreciate a Christmas Day brawl
Warren
It’s not that serious
Gage
No you’re right I’ll enjoy the afternoon with a growling stomach
Warren
Just go make another plate
Gage
All the best food is gone
Tripp
Womp womp
Kind of like when I got here and for some reason no one saved me a cinnamon roll
Gage
No holds allowed if you don’t make it in time for breakfast
Warren
Have to agree, I think snooze you lose is the right call here
Tripp
So did you or did you not eat the last cinnamon roll?
Gage
Irrelevant
Tripp
Mesa and I opened presents at her Mom’s this morning before coming here. You can’t hold that against me.
Gage
Maybe I would care if I wasn’t forced to skip lunch
Warren
It could have been Granger, he’s trying to gain. Add him to the chat
Hell no. Do not add him
Gage
The kid already left so he didn’t take my food. It was one of you.
Tripp
The important thing here is that Gage ate the last cinnamon roll.
And he thinks he has a right to a decent afternoon meal after that? Make it make sense
Warren
Source?
Tripp
Your mom
Gage
Oh so my mother in law is a snitch now huh
Whatever. I’d do it again no regrets
Tripp
That’s why I ate your chips and dip you fat motherfucker
Or whatever Tupac said
I hate you
Gage
You’re fired
Warren
The girls are glaring at us…wrap it up
Merry Christmas
I rarely reply in the group chat. Most of the time, I don’t even bother to read it because scrolling back for context in the conversation is too hard when they fire off so many texts, one after another, so fast. On a daily freaking basis, no less.
But it’s Christmas, and I’m the only one who isn’t present for the get-together at Blythe and Warren’s parents’ place today.
I’ll also be the only one who won’t be back at the bunkhouse for Hot Toddys and a round of pool with the football game on in the background tonight.
Participating in the group chat is the least I can do.
I lean back on the couch with one leg bent and the other stretched out. Missy laughs, reminding me that I haven’t been focused on the movie. I rest the phone on my thigh and give her a half smile when she turns her head to see if I thought the joke was as funny as she did.
I wish we could hang out more. Some days, I miss living here, too. Not under the same roof as my parents and sister exactly. Just . . . close to home.
Home holds so many different meanings for me, though. It makes picking a place to land permanently a confusing process. Too many things evoke the same feeling—my family and the place I grew up, my friends, the bunkhouse, the ranch.
Hattie.
She’s a version of home I wish I could run from instead of long for.
I lean my elbow on the arm of the couch and rest the side of my head on my fist. I’m a martyr to my own pain and suffering, it seems, because not only do I let my thoughts roam more freely to her as of late, but I worsen the ache by clicking on the message thread with her name attached to it.
Scrolling up, I see a long list of messages in green bubbles that she’s never read and never will. Something about it is freeing. I can send her what’s on my mind without risking rejection or fallout because I know it won’t actually get to her.
Before I think better of it, my thumb types out three words, slow as molasses, one letter at a time. Missy laughs again. I look up from my phone, letting the movie distract me for a few minutes.
“Pause it real quick,” Mom calls out from the front porch. “Your dad’s got lunch ready on the grill.”
Missy pauses the TV, jumps up to grab a plate as she passes through the kitchen, and joins our parents outside. I rise from my seat to do the same. Before I brace my hand on the screen door and walk out to the porch, I hit the send button.
I miss you.
It takes no more than a second for it to turn blue. I hold my breath and squint at the words beneath the text bubble that read delivered 12:53 PM.
“What the fuck?” I whisper.
I hold my thumb down on the message and look for an option to unsend. Undo. Cancel. Never mind. When none of those choices appear in the list of actions, I close the app and reopen it, hoping the text bubble has somehow turned back to green.
It didn’t.