5. Rory
Rory
Seriously, what the hell?
I angrily fold the kitchen towel, then frown at the results and shake it out as I think about Nate’s text.
I can't believe my dad talked him into doing this ridiculous competition.
It’s not like Dad to pass things off on other people. But then, this stupid pageant is kind of his jam, and I can see how he didn’t want to give it up.
With everything that’s happened in the past months, I can absolutely see why he wanted to send in a replacement for himself. Not leaving the pageant entirely, but not participating himself.
It makes sense to have another Kelley take part.
Really, what I have trouble believing is that Nate fell for it. Or that he caved.
The Mr. Lonesome pageant has been going on as long as I can remember. And for all that time, it's been mildly humiliating to watch my dad compete.
Watching my dad do his ventriloquist routine year after year was torture enough, not to mention the history quiz, which is the most benign of the events.
The charity event, though, varies from year to year and always brought about a new and unique way for my dad to embarrass me. Especially when I was a teenager, because virtually everything my parents did embarrassed me back then.
One year, it was an evening wear competition. Competitors dressed in their finest and put on a fashion show. Townsfolk purchased tickets to vote for whoever they thought wore it best.
Another year, they had a bake-off. That one was particularly memorable because Dad accidentally used salt instead of sugar for his lemon meringue pie. Unsurprisingly, his entry failed to impress the judges.
Fortunately, the judges’ votes were only part of the scoring for that particular competition. After the actual bake-off, they auctioned off the entries to raise money for charity, with the amount raised added to each competitor’s score.
When no one bid on Dad’s disaster of a pie, Mom finally offered five dollars. It was the winning—and only—bid, and the pie ended up in the trash before we even left the high school auditorium, where the auction took place.
Dad got the five points for the five-dollar bid. It was not the highest score of the event, to say the least, and I remember being exceedingly grateful that the charity event changes every year.
In retrospect, I should have appreciated the bake sale. Would Nate win? Absolutely not. I love him, but it’s not because of his skills in the kitchen. The man is a disaster when it comes to cooking. But facing a bake-off would have been preferable to a bachelor auction.
If Dad were the one competing, it would be hard enough to take in, watching someone from town win a date with my father. And sure, I know it’s all in fun. That it’s not like Nate would go on one forced date and fall madly in love with whoever paid to take him out.
But even so, I don’t think I’m okay watching random girls bid on my boyfriend. The father of the baby that may or may not be inside me right now, even.
I cross my fingers, because with any luck, this missed period will just be a result of stress and my IUD.
Not a baby.
With my hormonal IUD, my period is irregular at best, sometimes only appearing for a day at a time. I loved that at first because my periods are brutal. Pelvic pain, cramps, headaches, all of it, and being rid of that seemed like a godsend.
But sometimes it might be nice to have a period. Just to make sure.
Like now.
I shake my head, doing my best to focus on reality. Nothing is for sure.
Stress can mess with your cycle, first of all, and grieving for my mom is one of the most stressful situations I've ever been in. It’s not surprising that it would cause me to skip a period.
Stacey bought a bunch of tests after I unloaded on her and Allie, and I still have them, just waiting to be unwrapped. Plus, Allie ordered a bunch more online.
We have a plan. I’m going to take another test or two. Maybe three. But they’ve made me promise to wait until they can both be with me for the moment of truth.
I startle as Spam yelps, his usual indication that someone is in the driveway. Or that there’s a person on the TV, or that a bird is flying by, or a squirrel is in the yard.
Basically, anything can prompt that noise.
But as I tilt my head, I hear an engine, then the slamming of a car door. It’s too early for Nate to be home from work.
Isn’t it? A glance at the clock on the stove confirms it: 6:30. Definitely earlier than usual, but unlike most days when I’m scrambling to get dinner ready before he walks in the door at seven, I’m ready.
The sauce has been cooking in the slow cooker all day, and the meatballs are ready to be added, fresh from the oven.
The only things left to do are to cook the pasta and heat up the bread. It shouldn't take more than ten minutes at the most.
I survey the kitchen counters, feeling like a domestic goddess.
The front door opens, and Spam races to greet my boyfriend, nails clicking frantically against the hardwood floor.
Nate's low laugh filters through the hallway. “Hey, Spam. How was your day, pup?”
Spam yips in reply.
Ollie, clearly tired of Spam after two seconds at home, saunters past the kitchen entrance and settles on his bed in the living room, like some 1950s man of the house just waiting for his slippers and glass of brandy.
“Where’s your mama, Spam?” Nate asks.
"In the kitchen," I call, filling a pot with water for the pasta.
Look at me. Little Susie Homemaker.
I shut off the water and set the pot on the stove. "You're early. I wasn't expecting you for another half hour or so."
He appears in the kitchen doorway, a smile on his face and Spam in his arms, and holy hotness.
His dark-blond hair is the tiniest bit mussed from the baseball cap he must have worn all day, and his gray High Lonesome Police Department T-shirt hugs his toned shoulders and biceps, with a few smudges around the hem that point to a full day’s work. The shirt is tucked in, highlighting his abs.
Even disheveled, he makes my heart skip.
Sometimes I can’t believe he’s mine.
“I'm still on until seven, but I couldn't wait to get home to you.” He crosses to me, wraps his arms around my waist from behind, and presses a kiss to my neck. "It smells amazing in here."
I lean back against him, soaking in his warmth. "It’s Mom's sauce recipe.”
"Mmm. One of my favorites," Nate murmurs against my skin. His arms tighten around me, and the thump of his heart vibrates against my back, strong and steady. “How are you doing, Ror?”
A lump rises in my throat. The pain of losing Mom is there, all the time, but it’s slowly dulled, becoming just a little less sharp around the edges with each passing day.
Still, I miss her so fucking much. This is the first time I’ve been able to bring myself to make one of her favorite recipes, not quite ready until now to face not only the familiar scent of my childhood but also the handwritten recipe card, creased and stained from years of use.
The fact that Nate gets it, that he knows what I need without even having to ask, speaks volumes.
I turn to face him, leaning into his strong embrace.
I’ve read that grief is like an ocean wave, or something like that. That it ebbs and flows, coming back in full force when we least expect it. That eventually, the pain fades.
I hope they’re right. That one day, even the dull ache is less present, less a part of every minute. I can’t even imagine going through this without Nate to lean on.
There’s a nudge at my shin as Spam wriggles between me and Nate, demanding attention, or maybe just wanting to be a part of this little family hug, and I let him in without letting go.
Nate has been so solid and supportive through my mom’s illness, her death…through everything.
His steadfast presence is more than I could ask for. I don’t even know how to explain it enough to thank him.
So instead, I look up at him, loving the way his facial hair highlights his strong jaw as he grins down at me. The way lines form at the corners of his eyes with his smile.
Seriously, how did I get this lucky?
He presses a kiss to my forehead. “How was your day, baby?”
That reminds me. “My day was fine. I think I need to hear more about yours.”
“Yeah?” His lips trail along my temple, down to my jawbone.
I set my palms against his chest and try to take a step back, but he holds me tight. “Yeah. Talk to me about this Mr. Lonesome thing. You're really going to do it?"
Nate groans and drops his forehead to mine. "Your dad is very persuasive.”
“That’s putting it lightly.”
He chuckles. “Plus, I found out the charity this year. They’re raising money for the new playground equipment at the elementary school. I can't say no to that, even if I wanted to."
“I guess I’ll start saving up, then. I’m going to need to grab that highest bid at the bachelor auction.” I smile, poking his side. “Can’t have anyone else going on a date with my man.”
“Eh, nothing you need to worry about, Rory.” Nate drops a kiss on my forehead. “It’s not like anyone else has a chance of stealing me away from you. You’re it for me.”
He says it like it's the most obvious truth in the world. Matter-of-fact, like he’s telling me the sky is blue.
“Well,” I say, turning back to the stove, "I'm not taking any chances. Especially with Yvonne and Kaitlyn. You know they’d do anything for a chance to be with you. Or a chance to mess with me, if nothing else.”
Nate laughs, reaching around me to grab a piece of spaghetti directly out of the boiling water, and pops the half-cooked pasta into his mouth.
"Yvonne and Kaitlyn? They’re still the same mean girls they were in high school, but overall, I think they're harmless.”
Maybe to him they are. And maybe he’s moved on from any high school drama of the past. I like to think I have. But those two seem determined to hold on to every last bit of their teenage years, and not in a good way.
I level a stare at him, a difficult feat when he’s this close and so much taller. "Did you already forget how Yvonne almost ruined everything between us?”
Nate's smile fades, and I can almost see him replaying her words, the assumptions I made, the secrets that nearly came between us. We’ve both done our best to move past it, but in a small town like HiLo, nothing is ever really buried.
He shakes his head, almost like he’s trying to shake off the past. “I could never forget that. And you’re right. I shouldn't downplay it. But neither of them has any chance with me, babe. I’m a one-woman man. Your man.”
I turn my head to rest my cheek against his chest. His heartbeat is slow, strong, steady, just like him.
But it’s not Nate I’m worried about. It’s everyone else.
But then, there’s a balance between being wary of other women and being a jealous girlfriend, and I’m getting dangerously close to that line.
Nate pulls back. He holds my face in his large hands and studies my expression. “I promise, Rory. Whatever ridiculous stunts I end up doing for this pageant, it’s all for fun and for charity. We’ll get through it. You’re mine, babe.”
The electronic beep of the oven startles us both.
Spam offers a yelp, just in case we didn’t hear the timer that can’t be more than three feet away from us.
“Okay?” Nate asks, still holding me close.
I offer him a nod. “Okay.”
Because I will be. I have to be.
With that reassurance, he lets me go. I pull the Italian bread from the oven and set it on the cutting board. I watch it, bread knife in hand, waiting for it to cool, until my thoughts get the best of me once again.
“Have you seen the Mr. Lonesome pageant recently?”
I’m sure he has. The man has been a fixture in High Lonesome much more than I have. After all, I hadn’t been back in my hometown for years until the reunion dragged me back.
“Nah. I do my best to avoid those spectacles. I think the last one I saw was back during high school.” He reaches over my shoulder to rip a chunk of bread from the loaf and pops it into his mouth.
I smack his shoulder. “Well, I haven’t been to the actual pageant, but I’ve had the dubious benefit of FaceTime with my parents during rehearsals. Last year, Dad had to perform a dance routine. He practiced for weeks."
"That doesn't sound so bad." Nate shrugs.
The images are burned into my brain. “In a white jumpsuit. Think Elvis Presley."
Nate's eyes widen, but his lips twitch as he tries not to smile. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh." I stir the pasta again, then turn back to the bread.
Steam is rising from the hole where Nate grabbed his sample. How does he not get that this is a huge thing to commit to?
I realize I have the bread knife in a death grip, my knuckles starting to turn white, and force myself to relax. It’s not the end of the world. It’s just a town event. Also, I’m not about to stab anyone.
Maybe I can blame this all on hormones. After all, I may or may not be growing a life inside of me. And if I’m not, I’m almost certainly in the throes of PMS.
I’m doing everything in my power to avoid thinking about it, at least until I take another test or three. The downside to that, of course, is that it gives my mind free rein to overthink just about anything else.
I finish cutting half the loaf into neat slices and then set the knife on the counter like a sane person. I lift a spoon and stir the pasta, which still has a few minutes to go.
Then I whirl on my boyfriend, throwing my arms into the air. “Do you not get it?”
Nate raises his eyebrows, which is far too mild of a reaction, if you ask me, and all it does is make me even more determined to get my point across.
“The bachelor auction, Nate?” I ask, gesturing with the slotted spoon. “It’s a pretty good idea. It’ll raise money for sure. I’ll give them that. But it’s just asking for trouble."
I turn to the stove and stir the pasta again, a little too aggressively. The boiling water sloshes, a little bit escaping the pot and landing with a sizzle on the burner.
Am I confident in my relationship with Nate? Absolutely. One hundred percent.
The man waited for me for ten years, and when a misunderstanding threatened our rekindled relationship, he did everything possible to get me back, even when most men would have gone running.
Of course I trust him.
I just don’t trust those girls. Not just Yvonne and Kaitlyn, although everyone in town knows that the girls who tried to make my life a living hell back in high school have nursed crushes on Nate since we were sixteen. It’s everyone in town, as far as I’m concerned.
Nate is hot, he’s a hometown guy, and he’s a cop. Any one of those would make him a catch, and he has all three. Add in the fact that he owns some insanely expensive property in Vail, and anyone in their right mind would be after him.
He’s a catch. I’m not the only one in town who knows it.
And that’s what worries me.