Chapter 11
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Banana: Alright . . . so, what did you do last night?
I don’t know why I’m standing out in the cold with my gloves off and my fingers bare to the whipping wind as I tap at my phone screen, but I make no move to stop.
My lips are numb as I rub them together, snow plastering to my bare face.
A small head shoves against my side as the calf beside me tries to get me to abandon my texting and pay attention to it again.
“You’re a needy thing,” I tell it, dropping one hand to scratch behind its ear as I use the other to finish typing.
The calf is only a couple of weeks old, having been one of the last births of the season. The mom’s close by, but this guy’s been on my tail all day.
With frozen fingers, I send off the text and pocket my phone before shoving my hands back into my gloves.
Me: Nothing as fun as you, apparently. I worked on a truck that’s not much more than rusted parts that belong in a dump yard until I went to bed.
From the chaotic, misspelled texts I received from her last night, I knew she was either drunk or suddenly half-blind.
I wasn’t expecting to see a text come in from her at all, but I was actually relieved when it did.
It saved me from having to be the one to reach out, whenever I worked up the nerve to.
Even though I wanted to, I most likely wouldn’t have. Maybe that would have been a mistake.
With a final pat to the calf’s head, I head back to the shed. Each step has my legs tingling, the cold seeping into my bones the longer I’m outside. The snowstorm is supposed to slow soon, but it hit us hard last night in another unforgiving dump.
The wind howls when I slip inside the barn and blow out a clouded breath. Pulling my hands out of my pockets, I press them to my lips and wait for them to stop burning before pulling my phone back out.
Banana: Do you like working on trucks?
The question surprises me. I don’t remember the last time someone asked me that. Long before I left town, maybe. Now, the only time someone mentions mechanics to me is when they inform me of something having gone wrong on one of the machines.
Me: I love it. Last night was the first time I’ve worked on something just because I wanted to in a really long time.
Banana: That’s sad. You should make yourself a priority more often. I hear it’s good for the heart.
I bark a laugh, shaking my head.
Me: Where’d you hear that? A fortune cookie?
Banana: And what if I did?
Me: I’d say that I need to buy them in bulk.
The typing bubbles appear for a few beats before her next message comes through.
Banana: I had a pretty shitty evening yesterday. Wound up trying to drink my problems away.
Me: Did it work?
It didn’t for me. Turns out it’s a bit difficult to hold a wrench steady when you’ve nursed a bottle of whiskey for a couple of hours.
Banana: Maybe. I don’t remember much of the night. I paid for my choices this morning.
Me: Anytime you want to talk, try me before the alcohol. Your head will appreciate it the next morning.
Banana: That’s a bit forward.
My throat clogs. Was it? Jesus Christ, of course it was.
I begin typing an apology when she texts again.
Banana: I like it. Consider yourself my new therapist.
Me: Do I get a certificate or something?
Banana: No, but you can offer me the same job in exchange.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, contemplating the offer. Is that something I’m willing to do? Give a stranger access to all of my problems when I don’t so much as share them with so much as Caleb, my best friend.
Maybe that’s the safer thing to do. She doesn’t know who I am. There’s nothing she can do with my secrets besides listen to them and maybe judge me for them in secret.
Me: Deal.
Banana: Pleasure doing business with you, Bo.
Me: Likewise, Banana.
My grandmother is a woman of many words. Oftentimes, far too many.
That’s especially true whenever we’re on a supply run.
If my grandfather knows the entire ranching population, then my grandmother knows double that number.
She’s kinder, more welcoming to newcomers, and loves to gossip.
We can’t make it three steps into the grocery store or feed shop before she’s catching up with someone she claims she hasn’t seen in a month or two.
The woman raised me, though, so after a couple of decades of being forced to suffer through these long conversations, I’d say I’m used to it now.
That’s why I’m not surprised when we don’t even make it past the cart corral inside the grocery shop before she’s taking me by the hand and dragging me over to Mrs. Sullivan and her daughter. I’m already prepared to endure the conversation with a smile by the time Grandma grabs their attention.
“Marty! You’re so grown up!”
Marty jolts at the volume of my grandmother’s voice but smiles kindly at her a beat later. Her mom does the same and meets my grandmother halfway, kissing both her cheeks.
“It’s so great to see you, Eliza. You look happy and healthy,” Mrs. Sullivan greets my grandma.
“Same to you both. I feel like the last time I saw Marty, she was graduating high school with my grandson!” Grandma says.
I fight back an eye roll. She knows damn well she’s seen them both in the last ten years.
This is most likely her trying to get me to take her friend’s daughter out on a date.
Ever since I’ve gotten back, all she’s seemed to want me to do is date someone.
I hate disappointing her, but I don’t have any plans on dating anytime soon.
Marty seems to sense my train of thought and smiles sympathetically. “I’ve spoken to Brody a couple of times since he’s been home. He’s a good friend.”
“I told the firefighters about your idea for the library fundraiser, and they’re interested, by the way. Darren said to text him the details,” I reply.
Marty is a beautiful woman, with strawberry blonde hair and two dimples that flash every time she smiles.
But friends is all I’m interested in, and I think it’s the same for her.
It’s hard to date as an adult in a town as small as Cherry Peak.
We all grew up together, and more often than not, if someone was going to start dating, they would have done it long before now.
It’s the older generation that can’t seem to accept that. If they had it their way, we’d all have married a high school sweetheart, had six kids, and already bought matching headstones.
“Thank you! I’ll talk to him today and get it set up. The kids are going to love it,” Marty says.
“What fundraiser is this for again?” her mom asks, attention whirling to her daughter.
Marty nearly glows at the chance to explain her idea.
“I was hoping the fire department could help me with a small carnival inside the library in the new year. There would be a toy drive, and the money from the carnival games would be used to help give the kids section of the library a bit of a makeover. It’s extremely outdated. ”
“You’re right. It’s far too dark in there! Let me know what the Steeles can help with, and we’ll do it,” Grandma offers.
Marty nods, opening her mouth to reply, when there’s a crash from one of the aisles close by.
A muffled female curse is followed by another crash, smaller and quieter this time.
What sounds like cans rolling along the floor and metal clanking has my curiosity sparking, my feet carrying me in the direction of the sound.
My decent mood is snuffed out the moment I see the woman currently attempting to sweep a dozen cans of soup off the floor and into her arms.
“Really? This is really going to happen to me right now?” she mutters to herself, scowling at the tin cans.
I cross my arms and watch her lose her grip on the armful of soup for the second time. They hit the floor with a bang, and it’s nothing short of a miracle that they don’t bust open. She scrambles for them, and then I’m moving toward her.
When she notices me coming, she glances at the ceiling and mutters, “Fuck.” When her brown eyes meet mine again, they tighten at the corners. “Are you here to make fun of me?”
“I was going to help you, but I can leave.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“You look like you need it.”
Rage makes her nostrils flare. “You’re arrogant.”
“You seem to bring that quality out of me, sweetheart.”
Shooting to her feet, she takes the cans she’s managed to secure and slams them onto the shelf.
I drag my eyes down the curves of her body, gritting my teeth as I’m reminded how outrageously beautiful she is.
Brown eyes aren’t usually my thing, but hers aren’t simply brown.
They’re warm and soft, a complete contradiction to Anna from what I’ve seen thus far.
Her pin-straight hair is a shade of brown so deep it’s nearly black, depending on the lighting, and it reaches just past her shoulders.
Instead of jeans and boots that very obviously don’t fit her properly, she’s wearing black leggings that fit a little too well and dirty, worn sneakers.
Her dark jacket is the one she wore last night.
It looks a bit too thin for the current weather here right now, but I keep my mouth shut about that.
“No boots for you today?” I sound condescending as fuck, but I ignore the guilt that follows. She doesn’t look at all like she did yesterday, and that tells me everything that I need to know.
Posers aren’t welcome in my life. I’ve encountered enough of them to last a lifetime.
“Is that what your problem with me is about? My boots last night?” she hisses.
I shrug and drop to a crouch, gathering the rest of the cans. “If the boot fits.”
“You’re hilarious. And a jackass. What a fantastic mix of traits.”
“Happy to entertain you . . .” I pause, arching a brow. “What was your name again?”
I almost flinch at her expression. Fuck, she might very well chuck one of those cans at my head.
“If you’ve forgotten my name, you never deserved to know it in the first place. The fact you have any fans at all is beyond me. You wear a great mask, though. I’ll give you that,” she grits out.
Diverting her eyes, she keeps her shoulders tight while finishing arranging all the cans. I wait until she’s backed away from the shelf before taking the ones in my arms over and doing the same.
I change the subject before I can say anything that will have her truly beating my ass with a can. “How did you even knock all of these off?”
“Changing the topic, are we?” she counters.
“You’re impossible.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
Blowing out a long, exasperated breath, I finish with the cans and back away from her. “You’re welcome for the help.”
“Considering I never asked for the help, I’m not thanking you.”
She’s a stubborn woman, that’s for sure. Stubborn and somehow able to get on my very last damn nerve with little to no effort.
“Noted. I’ll make sure to stand by and watch you suffer next time you look like you need help,” I reply.
“Brody Steele! That is no way to speak to a woman!”