Chapter 11
scarlett
I found an old journal of Nana’s today, it was filled with page after page of letters to me.
They detailed all the adventures she and I went on, the way she saw not only me but Lucas, too.
Said we were two peas in a pod, two sides of the same coin, how if ever there came a time where the world was against one of us, we’d always be able to win if we fought together.
Part of me thinks I let go of the dream of this place because I feared I’d come back and he'd be happily married or worse, nowhere to be found. The ranch wouldn’t feel like home without him.
I’m starting to realize it isn’t actually the ranch, it’s him.
It’s always been him who makes this place so special to me.
He’s such a giant, tall and muscular in a way that would terrify me if I didn’t know him like the back of my hand.
Yet, he’s so gentle with animals and kids.
Hell, it makes me itch to push him to the point that he throws me over his shoulder and shows me just how rough he can be.
I dream about his calloused hands roaming over my curves, the way he whispered in my ear while he was filling my plate with food the other day, almost had me coming undone on the spot.
I know he’s hoping for something more, maybe to pick up where we left off all those years ago. If I’m being totally honest with myself, I want those things too. But what happens when he realizes I’m damaged goods?
I wasn’t prepared for the way being back here makes me hate myself.
Hate the way I am, who I’ve become. The words I sling like weapons, how I watch them land, the light dimming in his eyes with every carefully crafted wall I throw up.
That’s the problem with knowing someone as intimately as I know him.
I know where his soft spots are. And for some reason, the fact that he’s more at home here than I am makes that ugly monster rear its head.
The one that deliberately puts people down to make itself feel better.
The one that feels entitled to be the most respected, most feared, the one people come to for direction and help.
It doesn’t like feeling weak, trapped, or like it doesn’t belong.
It’s a monster that grew alongside my father.
He groomed and fed it. Show up as the most important person, Scarlett.
People respect confident people. Don’t let them see your fear, your emotions.
Keep your cool at all times. If they don’t think you’re the one for the job, you'd best dig deep until you convince them it’s you who calls the shots.
I start walking, letting my legs carry me where they desire. It should come as no surprise that half an hour later, I find myself outside his house. He’s sitting on one of the chairs on his porch, one ankle crossed over his knee as he stares out at the towering trees that line his driveway.
Apparently, the Halloween fairy has already been to his house. Pumpkins line the driveway, continuing up the walkway to the porch that has four of those fake pumpkins with the lights inside sitting on the steps.
“Hey,” I say, but he doesn’t look at me. My heart rate picks up at his silence. Closing the distance, I stop when the toe of my shoes kisses the bottom stair. “Can I come up?”
He turns to look at me, his eyes are distant, guarded in a way that feels so foreign to me. “Sure,” he mumbles.
Sitting on the bench across from him, I pull my legs into my chest and let my head rest on my knees while I try not to take his clipped response personally. “You decorated?” I ask, trying to strike up a conversation again.
He puts his finger through the ring hanging from his neck, sliding it back and forth a couple of times, filling the air with the telltale zipping noise that gives way to his nerves.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes still locked on the trees.
“I should have asked if you wanted me to do your house too.” The ring slips from between his fingers, leaning back, eyes drifting closed, head resting against the chair like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“I just felt like that might be overstepping our current…” he pauses like he’s unsure of what to say here.
“Situation.” He finally says through clenched teeth as if it physically pains him to say anything so impersonal.
I wish his words didn’t threaten to flay me alive, but they do. They snake around my neck the way his hands did all those years ago. But instead of making me feel safe like being under his palms did, the words now make it harder to breathe.
“Yeah,” I say, aiming for unbothered. Epically missing the mark when I add. “I mean, we’re basically strangers these days.”
He flies off the chair so fast he’s almost a blur. The legs of the chair scrape against the deck, and then he’s on his feet in front of me. Tension rolls off him in waves, cascading over me like a rip current meant to pull me out to sea.
“Don’t insult me by calling us strangers, Scarlett.” The words scrape from his throat, so low it’s almost a growl. I don’t even have time to take a full breath before he turns and walks into the house, slamming the door behind him hard enough that it rattles against the frame.
My heart slows yet feels like it’s thumping harder just to keep me upright as I watch him through the window.
His back expands impossibly larger as he sits at the kitchen island and drops his head in his hands.
His body sways back and forth, something he did as a kid when he was trying to keep himself from falling apart.
For some reason, my body automatically reacts to his distress. Pushing through the door, I go straight to him, lifting up on my toes and wrapping my arms around his shoulders. “I’m sorry. You’re right. We could never be strangers, Goldie.”
I feel him tense beneath me. “You called me Goldie.” He says into his hands. When his eyes lift to mine, they’re red-rimmed, but there’s a lightness to them. One that looks a lot like hope.
I smile softly, realizing how natural it felt, like it’s been sitting on the tip of my tongue this entire time. Being here with him strips everything down, the doubts, the fears, the quiet panic that usually hums under my skin when I think I’m not doing enough. With him, it all just… disappears.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I did.”
Tilting his head until it gently rests against mine, the simple touch allows me to take the first full breath I’ve had in years.
We’re not clinging to one another, just existing side by side in a way that feels like something we’ve been denied for a long time.
The kind of closeness that doesn’t demand anything in return.
We stay like that for a moment, soaking in the comfort the other provides. I breathe him in, citrus and something spicier fill my nose, and I find myself trying to commit it to memory. Like, I’m not sure I’ll let myself have this again.
All too soon, he slips away, hopping off the barstool and making his way to the fridge. He hums softly, pulling open the door and plopping two different packages of cheese and some butter on the counter.
When he looks at me, a saccharine smile stretches across his face. “Is grilled cheese still your favorite?”
My breath catches. “My mom isn’t nice, either,” he says, his eyes guarded like he doesn’t know how much he wants to share with me.
I flick the top of the water, sending a soft spray of it in his direction, hoping to keep him talking. It works. “Well, she just ignores me. I have to cook for myself and clean everything. Sometimes we don’t have food at home, and that’s hard.”
My smile falls. That doesn’t sound like a very good mom, not that mine is any better. “Can you make grilled cheese?” I ask, eyebrows shooting toward the sky, it’s a total friendship dealbreaker if he can’t.
He nods, and my smile immediately comes back.
“That’s my favorite, maybe we can make it together for lunch!”
I blink rapidly, my mouth hanging open as I slowly nod. He smiles and moves around the kitchen, pulling out a skillet and some sourdough bread.
“I’m not sure if you noticed during your little intruder incident, but Sammy is kind of a diva.” He chuckles, not looking up. “He’s super boujee when it comes to his sourdough, and don’t even get him started on avocado toast.”
He points the plastic spatula in my direction. “Luckily, his sister’s sourdough is freaking stellar.”
I don’t say anything, just watch his forearms flex and twist as he cuts the butter from the stick and drops it into the pan, filling the kitchen with that satisfying sizzle.
“My dad used to make these for me, I’m not sure I ever told you that, but he’d sit me on the island and tell me about his day while he made them. ”
He pauses, head bowed over the pan. I watch his back expand on his next inhale. He holds his breath for a second before letting it out. “It's usually what I make myself when I have late-night practices, or I can’t sleep.”
I smile as he continues his ramblings. It brings a sense of comfort, knowing that he still feels the need to fill the silence, or maybe it’s the fact that he feels comfortable enough around me to let go enough that he can ramble. I wonder if he does this with his teammates or if it's just me?
He places the bread in the pan, flipping it to make sure the butter soaks both sides, then pulls out four slices of cheese. Once both of our sandwiches are done, he reaches into the fridge and pulls out a jar of pickle spears, putting one on each plate before sliding one over to me.
“Sorry, I don’t have salt and vinegar chips. They’re not on my diet during the season because I can never eat one without eating the entire bag.” His ears turn a light shade of pink as he fidgets with his necklace.
“Y-you remembered?” I whisper, my eyes trained on the plate like it’s something precious instead of a sandwich.