17. Rory
Rory
The butterflies in my stomach need to calm the fuck down.
This is a freaking town event, not a life-or-death situation.
But my nerves don’t seem to care, so here I am, knee bouncing up and down as I chew on my lower lip, on the edge of my seat over a quiz about local history.
But it's the first event of the Mr. Lonesome pageant.
And if I’m being honest, I want my boyfriend to win this event. To win the whole thing, honestly.
When Dad was a contestant, it was just for fun, or for bragging rights. Losing Mom has been hard on him, though. We’re all trying to find our new normal, who we are without her, but it’s been tough for him.
When he asked Nate to compete this year, he was pretty clear that it was in his place. So that even if Dad can’t bring himself to participate, there would still be someone from the family in the mix.
If Nate doesn’t win, or at least do well, I’m not sure Dad will ever really find himself again. That’s a lot of pressure to place on a single town event, and maybe I’m reading too much into it. But since Mom died, I haven’t seen that light in Dad’s eyes. It’s like he’s a shell of his former self.
This pageant has always been something he looked forward to, that he talked about all year round. He loved being up on stage, entertaining everyone. If this can’t bring back his spark, I don’t know if anything can.
Two rounds down, and Nate has done pretty well. Randy was eliminated after the first round, and Chip after the second.
Now, we’re down to Lionel, Joe, and Nate. It’s not a surprise, especially for this event—Chip has only been in town for a few years, and Randy is fresh off the boat.
I mean, there’s not exactly a boat that comes to High Lonesome, obviously, so it’s not a great turn of phrase. But Randy has been in town for less than a year. From what I’ve gathered, he arrived a month or two after I came back for the reunion.
So in small-town time, not long, and no one would expect either of the two newcomers to know all of the nuances of the town’s history in such a short time.
But now we're down to the real competition.
I grip the edge of my seat tighter as Martha fires question after question at the three men.
Some of them are straightforward questions, like what mineral the local mine was famous for back in the day.
Others are tougher. Like, a lot tougher.
I grew up in HiLo, but these questions seem like you’d need a degree in the town’s history to know the answer:
In what year was the first mayor elected?
What was the name of the Prohibition-era speakeasy in town?
What was the password to get into said speakeasy?
Hell, I’m not sure everyone living in HiLo in 1920 would have known the password. I mean, that was kind of the point.
But even with trivia that seems designed to trip up the contestants, Nate answers most of his questions easily.
He misses a few, but so do the other men. At first, I try to keep score in my head. Eventually, though, I lose track.
The not knowing spikes my stress even higher.
“In what year was the High Lonesome Police Department founded?” Martha asks.
Nate hits his buzzer.
“Eighteen seventy-two,” he says confidently.
I hold my breath.
Martha consults her card.
Nate, Joe, and Lionel lean forward over their podiums, waiting for the decision.
“Correct!” Martha announces. “That’s another point for Nate Patterson. Now we’ve reached the final question for the night.”
My breath hitches in my chest, even though I tell myself it’s only a game. And this is only one part.
But I still want Nate to win.
Martha clears her throat.
“What,” she says, drawing out the question, “is the inscription on the memorial stone that sits in front of City Hall?”
Lionel opens his mouth, raising his hand toward his buzzer, then closes his mouth.
Joe furrows his eyebrows.
Nate tilts his head, looking toward the ceiling.
“Time is running out,” Martha reminds them.
It’s a tough question.
I’ve read that stone a hundred times. It says something about civil something and agreement and something and… Anyway, it’s a lot of words. I’m not sure anyone could quote it from memory.
This seems like an unfair question, if you ask me.
“Five seconds,” Martha says.
Joe hits his buzzer. “Um, civil engagement promotes agreement and…uh…World War II?”
Martha shakes her head. “I’m sorry, that is incorrect. Nate or Lionel?”
Lionel moves forward and back, like he can’t decide whether to lean into the podium and give an answer or not.
“Three…two…” Martha counts down.
Lionel hits his buzzer.
“Uh, something about freedom and community,” he guesses.
Martha frowns at him.
“That is incorrect.” She looks at Nate. “Nate, any guesses?”
Nate smiles, but he doesn’t hit his buzzer.
The timer goes off.
“The correct answer,” Martha announces, “is The civil engagement of parties for the greater good of community. It’s a testament to standing up for what we believe in. For those who haven’t seen the stone, please stop by City Hall to check it out. Now, please wait while we finalize the scores.”
I rub my palms along my thighs harder as she looks down at what appears to be the score sheet in front of her.
Everyone but Nate answered the last question incorrectly. That has to count for something, right?
I meet his gaze.
Behind the podium, he seems completely at ease as he offers me a lazy smile.
When I bite my lip, he winks at me, like he’s telling me everything will be okay.
“You okay?” Allie asks, setting a hand on my shoulder.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as I lean over and rest my head on her shoulder. As I do, Stacey reaches out and runs a hand along my arm.
“Just stressed,” I manage. “It’s okay. I mean, of course it’s okay. This isn’t exactly life or death here.”
“Yeah, but it’s stressful watching someone you care about, even if the competition is low stakes. We’re here for you, Rory.” Stacey squeezes my hand.
She and Allie hold me as my heart races, and it does help.
I’m not sure what I’d do without the two of them.
I wince as I lift another scoop of manure into the wheelbarrow. After Nate’s second-place win at the history quiz a few days ago, I was feeling great, but the high must be fading. This stupid side stitch is making it tough to get work done.
“You okay?” Mandy lifts her brows, concern etched on her face. “You can take a day off if you need one. You know that.”
Shoot. I didn’t realize she was walking by, or I would have hidden it better.
It’s not a big deal, anyway. It's probably all in my head. Stress does funny things to you, and Lord knows I've been stressed about everything with the pageant.
I shake my head, forcing a smile as I press my palm against my side. “I’m fine. Just a cramp.”
I'm sure that's all it is, too.
Mandy lifts one brow, studying me, and I squirm under her scrutiny.
She lets out a sigh. “Okay, then. But remember, Rory, I managed to keep this place running by myself for a couple of months. I can manage a few days if you need to rest.”
“I know. Thanks. I’ll take time off if I need it.”
I stab the pitchfork into the sawdust and lift another pile of manure. This time, there’s no flash of pain.
See? I’m fine. No need for any time off.
I don’t have time for more stress in my life. The pregnancy scare was bad enough, and with the Mr. Lonesome competition now front and center, everything else needs to take a back seat for a while.
And once that’s done, Nate and I need some time to just be. To enjoy one another without facing more of life's challenges.
Another forkful of manure lands in the wheelbarrow. This time, there's just the slightest ache.
And I’m still feeling okay forty minutes later, when I empty the wheelbarrow after mucking the last stall.
See? It's nothing. I'm fine.
Just stressed. As usual.
One week later
For once, I'm glad that Nate's not home. It's not just because of the scent of horse manure that emanates from me as I step into the house. He's used to that.
It's more that I need some time to reflect while I get ready for tonight. Because tonight's the night.
It's only the second event of the Mr. Lonesome pageant, and after Nate’s win at the history quiz, I'm not worried about his chances of doing well overall.
If I had a choice, I’d kind of want him to not do well tonight. Does that make me a bad girlfriend? Maybe, but in this case, I'll wear that title with pride.
I'm just not sure I can sit there silently while other people bid for the chance at a date with my boyfriend.
I kick off my boots and tuck them into the closet, mentally revisiting the list I made of reasons I should be okay with this.
One. This is for a good cause.
Two. It's just a date, and any sane person would realize that it doesn't mean anything.
Three. I'm going to bid, and I'm going to win that date.
I repeat the list again in my head as Spam follows me up the stairs to the bedroom. I turn on the shower, and as I shed my barn clothes, I study myself, naked, in the mirror.
Mud streaks highlight my cheekbones. Several pieces of hay fall to the tile as I remove the elastic holding my ponytail and shake out my hair.
My muscles are getting stronger, especially my biceps, thanks to plenty of stall mucking and lifting hay bales.
I bend my arm at the elbow and flex, admiring the tiny bulge that pops up. I’m kind of jacked. Really, I should have nothing to worry about tonight.
My gaze drifts down to my chest. Another streak of mud decorates the area just below my neck, thanks to a low-cut shirt and some recent rain that turned the front paddock into a swamp.
Aside from that, though, my chest isn't bad at all.
Wait. No. It’s amazing.
I set my palms on the countertop and lean forward, squeezing my boobs between my upper arms to give myself a hint of cleavage.
There's no way that Nate could do better than this hot little package.
Right?
I blow out a long breath as I stand up straight.
The whole positive self-talk, self-love shtick is Allie’s thing. I mean, it works, to some extent.
But my problem isn't self-esteem, at least not entirely. I've never really had a problem with my body. I'm definitely not worried about whether Nate enjoys it, either. If last night was any indication, he likes my body a little too much.
For the record: once in the shower, hot and quick, then once in bed, slow and sensual.
I step into the shower, steam wafting around me as the hot water sluices down my body, washing away the grime of the day at the barn.
I stand there longer than necessary before I reach for the shampoo, hoping the water will carry away some of these nerves, too. But as I lather my long hair, I don't feel any better.
I go back through the list.
Good cause.
Not a date.
I'm going to win.
A buzzing noise sounds from outside the shower. I wipe shampoo suds from my face and poke my head out from behind the curtain. My phone dances across the counter, vibrating with a phone call.
I weigh the options—answer it naked, dripping wet, and not conditioned versus calling back in a few minutes—and settle for the second option.
The prospect of needing to call someone back, whoever that might be, speeds me through the rest of my shower. Approximately three minutes later, I shut off the water. I step out onto the bathmat and wrap a towel around my body, then one around my hair.
Multitasking, I lift the phone with one hand while grabbing my tub of moisturizer with the other. Before I can see whose call I missed, though, the screen lights up again with another call.
I swipe to answer, then set the phone to speaker and place it on the counter.
"Hey, Nate,” I say, unscrewing the top of my moisturizer. “I’m just getting ready for tonight. How are you feeling?”
"That's why I was calling you.” He chuckles. “I know you were worried about tonight. You doing okay, babe?”
“I’m all right.” No sense in hiding the truth. “Nervous, but I'll be okay. How are you doing? You're the one who has to get up on stage.”
“Hey, I’m just looking forward to raising some money for the town. If I get a hot date with my girlfriend out of it, that’s just icing on the cake.”
My heart squeezes. He really is a good guy.
“What if someone else wins the auction?” I finally voice my fear. “You'll have to go on a date with them, right?”
Nate laughs again, the sound low and rumbling. "Sure, but I’m hoping my hot girlfriend wins. No matter what, though, I only have eyes for you, babe.”
“I love you,” I say softly. “See you soon.”
“Love you too, babe,” he says. “Just remember, no matter what happens tonight, it’s not going to affect our relationship. Okay?”
His words help. As he ends the call, I clear away some of the steam from the mirror and stare at my reflection.
I love Nate.
I trust Nate.
But somehow I can't shake the feeling that tonight isn't going to go well.