13. Lo #3
“For what it’s worth,” Bree says finally, “you don’t have to decide anything right now. You’ve got time. The baby’s not coming for another four months. The hay business is doing well - you’ve got repeat orders coming in, and Rafael says the quality’s the best he’s seen in years.”
“Rafael’s being nice because I’m pregnant and he’s scared I’ll cry on him.”
“Rafael’s being honest because he’s physically incapable of lying. The man once told a customer her horse was ugly and she should stop entering it in shows.”
“Did the horse win any shows?”
“Not a single one. He was right, but she didn’t speak to him for a year.” Bree shrugs. “Point is, you’ve got a place to live, work that matters, people who care about you. Whatever you decide about Jesse, it doesn’t have to be today.”
“I know.”
“And whatever you decide, we’re here. That doesn’t change.”
“I know.”
Rosie tugs on my sleeve. “Lo? Is the baby’s daddy the man in the videos?”
The table goes quiet. Bree opens her mouth to redirect, but I shake my head slightly.
“Yeah, sweetheart. He is.”
“Is he nice?”
“That’s… complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
“Complicated like-” I stop. How do you explain the wreckage of a marriage to a six-year-old?
How do you explain loving someone and hating them at the same time, missing them and wanting to never see them again?
“He used to be nice. He used to be the nicest person I knew. And then some things happened, and he made some choices, and now I’m not sure what he is anymore. ”
Rosie considers this with the gravity of a tiny philosopher. “Mama says people can change if they want to. But they have to do it themselves. Nobody can do it for them.”
“Your mama’s smart,” I say.
“I know.” She goes back to her coloring. “I’m gonna draw the baby’s daddy too. In case the baby wants to know what he looks like. Even if he’s not nice anymore, maybe the baby will want to see his face.”
My throat tightens. I don’t trust myself to speak.
“Rosie,” Bree says gently, “maybe we should-”
“It’s okay.” My voice comes out rough. “She’s not wrong. The baby might want to know.”
“The baby will know you,” Molly says. “That’s what matters.”
“The baby will know me crying over grilled cheese and waddling around a hay barn. That’s quite a legacy.”
“Better than knowing you gave up. Better than knowing you fell apart.” Molly reaches over and squeezes my hand.
“You’re doing something hard, Lo. You’re doing it scared and pregnant and alone, and you’re doing it anyway.
That kid’s going to know that. That kid’s going to know their mom is a badass who built something from nothing in a town of eight hundred people who adopted her like a stray cat. ”
“I’m not a stray cat.”
“You absolutely are a stray cat. You showed up skinny and scared, and now everyone feeds you and worries about your health and brings you things you didn’t ask for.
” She grins. “Wanda brought you cookies after self-defense class. Dot gives you extra pickles. Rafael hovers like you might break. You’re the town stray cat, and they’ve all decided you’re theirs. ”
“I don’t-” I stop. Swallow. “I don’t hate that.”
“You shouldn’t. It means you’re home.”
The word lands somewhere deep in my chest. Home. This town I stumbled into by accident, this diner with its bad coffee and good pie, these people who’ve decided I’m worth keeping. It feels like something. It feels like maybe enough.
Bree’s phone buzzes. She checks it, and her whole expression changes.
“What?” Molly asks.
“Ruth Cooper just called Rafael.” Bree looks at me. “Jesse’s asking if you’ll see him.”
My heart stops.
“He called Ruth first,” Bree continues. “From Ridley. Asked her to check with me, to check with you. He won’t come any closer without your permission. Won’t even get in the truck until you say yes.”
“He’s asking.”
“That’s what Ruth said. He’s asking, not showing up.”
Molly and I exchange a look.
“You don’t think-”
“Don’t.”
“I’m just saying-”
“I know what you’re saying. Don’t.”
Three minutes pass. Five. Rosie keeps coloring, oblivious. James smashes crackers into a fine powder and then tries to eat the powder, which seems inefficient but he’s committed to the process.
Molly switches to drumming her fingers on the table, which is only marginally less annoying. I stare at Bree’s phone. Count the seconds. Try to convince myself that my heart isn’t pounding, that my palms aren’t sweating, that I’m not thinking exactly what Molly’s thinking.
“What do you want me to tell him?” Bree asks.
I think about the last four months. The videos Molly just showed me. The ring on his finger in every single one. The way Ruth said he’d been asking about me through her, never pushing, never demanding.
Four hours from Ridley to here. If I say yes now, he could be at my door by dinner. And I’m not ready for that. Not yet.
“Tell him yes,” I say. “But tomorrow. Tomorrow afternoon. He can come to the main gate and wait there until I’m ready to see him.”
Bree nods. Types something into her phone. “I’ll let Ruth know she can give him the address in the morning.”
The baby kicks.
Tomorrow. I have until tomorrow to figure out what I’m going to say to him.