15. Worst. Pep. Talk. Ever
WORST. PEP. TALK. EVER
Dean
Ididn’t keep a cot in my office, but if the occasion demanded, I could make a passable bed out of the spare moving blankets in the storage barn without a moment’s hesitation.
Sometimes, I thought about it since I spent ninety percent of my time there.
Most people would have called it a night at a reasonable hour—specifically, the my-entire-staff-has-gone-home-and-the-sun-is-already-an-afterthought-in-the-western-sky hour. I was not most people.
There’s a certain peace in the after-hours vacuum of an empty ranch: the security lights creating cones of haloed dusk, the distant ripple of the irrigation system, and the climate-controlled thrum of the main barn’s HVAC, which sometimes drowned out even my own thoughts.
I locked up the main office at a quarter till ten and took the shortcut through the back lot, intending to check the new swag inventory before I headed home.
The welcome baskets my mom created for guests kept getting more and more expensive.
This last batch of water bottles, rain slickers, bandanas, and toiletries broke the bank, and I wanted to make sure it was worth the cost.
As I walked over, the air was so heavy it was difficult to breathe.
We were experiencing a record-breaking heat wave.
It took less than ten minutes to reach the storage barn which looked like a hay fevered afterthought in the midst of a renovation project, its cinderblock bones waiting for the pressure wash and a new coat of white paint come spring.
I keyed in the code and entered expecting the familiar odor of sawdust and PVC, and instead caught a waft of something floral…
roses, or maybe peony, and the faint, unmistakable hint of vanilla.
I didn’t need to see her to know who was here.
Felicity. Which was odd, since I’d seen her leave hours earlier, wrestling an armful of clipboards and three different-sized tote bags that would give a chiropractor PTSD.
She stood on the far side of the storage barn, buried in the shadow of the supply racks, head bent over a battered clipboard. Her hair was a halo in the dim light, the rest of her wrapped in a pink raincoat that looked about as useful as a paper towel roll in an actual storm.
I cleared my throat. “Forgot your timecard?”
She spun around, startled, nearly dropping the clipboard. “What the hell, Dean? You move like a ninja. I didn’t hear you at all.”
“Didn’t you leave at seven?” I questioned. “I distinctly recall you worrying about being late for lasagna night at Nonna’s.”
She offered a sheepish shrug. “I did. But when I showed up, Maverick was already asleep on the couch. Nonna insisted on keeping him overnight, and I wasn’t going to argue, I also didn’t plan on licking an electrical outlet and poking a bear with a fork. I have survival instincts.”
“You could have gone home and—” I searched for a word Felicity might use, “—‘recharged your batteries’?”
She gestured at the rows of labeled bins and the mountainous stacks of folding chairs. “And spend the whole night obsessing over whether we have enough for the Founder’s Day Festival? I wouldn’t have slept anyway.”
“You could have shot an email to maintenance.” I gestured to the clipboard. “Is this a new system, or are you just inventing work you don’t need to do?”
She let out a forced laugh. “If I’m the one responsible for something, I need to see it with my own eyes.”
“You are one clipboard away from becoming a public safety concern,” I teased.
She tilted her head, as if she’d only just realized the absurdity of our conversation. “Seriously?”
She shook her head and crossed the room, stopping in front of me and holding out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Pot. I’m Miss Kettle. Oh, my shirt is black, thank you for noticing.”
For some reason, that got me. I laughed—a full-throated, unguarded sound that echoed through the empty space. It surprised us both, and for a second I felt almost human. Like the version of myself I might have been if I hadn’t spent every waking hour trying to prevent disaster.
And then, as if the weather gods were waiting for a moment of levity to punish, the power cut out with a bang and a slow-dying groan. The overhead fluorescents flickered, then darkness fell like a dropped curtain.
I heard Felicity gasp, then breathe out of her nose. “What happened?” She sounded panicked.
“I heard there might be rolling blackouts because of the heat.”
“How long will it be out?” She sounded panicked.
“Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not a fan of the dark. Where is the circuit breaker?”
I aimed my phone light toward the far wall. “About fifty feet that way.”
We stumbled together through the makeshift aisles, her sneakers squeaking with each step. She led the way, refusing my offer to go first, and nearly crashed into the fuse box. I unlocked the panel and flipped the switches. Nothing.
She glanced up at me, the white-blue phone-glow carving unfamiliar shadows across her face. I couldn’t tell if she was actually scared or just uncomfortable with the lack of control. I recognized the feeling. It was unsettling, not being able to fix something with your own two hands.
“It’s fine, I was almost done anyway,” she shrugged.
As much as I was disappointed our bubble was going to burst, I understood her need to leave. We walked back to the door and tried to open it, but no power meant no electronic release. The analog override was outside.
Felicity let out a nervous laugh. “Should I start reciting my last will and testament, or...?”
“We’re not dying,” I said, too bluntly. “Just inconvenienced. Let me call someone.” I lifted my phone and saw I had no service. “Can you try, I don’t have bars.”
She pulled her phone out of her back pocket and after a few failed attempts, put it back down in defeat. “No service.” She stared up at me, her eyes wide with something I couldn’t quite place. “So that’s it. We’re stuck.”
“It’s a rolling backout,” I explained. “This is the one building that doesn’t have a backup generator. Either the power will come back on, someone will notice the barn didn’t automatically rearm and check on us, or Grant will find us in the morning on his rounds.”
“Morning?!” she repeated, her voice several octaves higher than normal.
I nodded, not nearly as concerned as she seemed to be. There were a lot worse places and people I could imagine being stuck with. This was by far not even close to my worst case scenario. In fact, I would say it was the opposite.
She exhaled, a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a huff. “You’re not very good at pep talks, you know that?”
“I don’t believe in false hope,” I replied.
She stared at the darkness, then up at me. “What do you believe in?”
You. What I feel for you.
The thought entered my head totally unprovoked. It shocked me that it had been my first thought. I knew I couldn’t tell her that, no matter how tempted I was. Finally, I said, “I believe that people say they want honesty, but they can’t handle it when they get it.”
She stared at me, her face lit by moonlight shining in through the skylights. A moment passed between us, one I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I felt a magnetic pull to her, but I told myself I couldn’t go there.
Instead, I brought up a subject I’d been wanting to address for two months. It was twofold because, if any subject would remind Felicity of the boundaries she’d put in place, this would be it.
“Maverick mentioned his dad had promised to take him horseback riding, and said he’d buy him a horse.” I’d never asked any questions about the man who donated fifty percent of Maverick’s DNA, but that wasn’t because I didn’t have them.
“I’m sure he did,” she stated flatly.
“Does he see him a lot?” I asked, trying to ride the fine line of getting too personal.
She sighed, and once she started talking, it was like a dam had broken.
“His dad texted me last night with a new phone number. I hadn’t heard from him in six months.
My first impulse was to delete the message, but I couldn’t.
When Maverick looks back at this time someday, he needs to know that I tried.
I messaged him back, giving him our new address.
The fact that we’ve been gone for two months and he had no clue tells you how involved he is.
I don’t want him coming in and out of his life on a whim.
I’ve tried to set boundaries with Tanner, for Maverick’s sake, but whenever he doesn’t get his way, he makes me feel like I’m the villain. I don’t know, maybe he’s right.”
I could see how upset Felicity was, and that she truly believed what she was saying. That she was actually doubting herself.
“You’re not the villain,” I assured her. “Villains don’t bring donuts to staff meetings and write thank-you notes to the cleaning crew.”
She let out a huff, nearly a laugh. “That is an absurdly low bar for being classified as not-the-villain.”
“It beats being a narcissist who only checks in when he needs something.”
She went silent, and I realized I’d hit something raw. I almost apologized for overstepping, but she spoke first, voice clear but trembling around the edges.
“He always promises me he’s going to change. Every time he comes back with a new job, or going to school, or a new place, he promises me things are different. Every time, I believe him a little less, but part of me still hopes. It’s pathetic, right?”
“It’s called optimism,” I said, but I felt the words catch in the back of my throat.
She turned to me. “Your turn.”
“My turn what?” I asked, honestly not sure of what I was supposed to say.
“I told you two of my greatest fears: that I’m failing Maverick and am the bad guy and the dark. What’s yours?”
I thought about it, what actually scared me. “I can’t shut off my brain. It never stops, I don’t think it ever will.”
“Do you ever wish you could turn it off?” she whispered.
“Doesn’t matter if I do. I can’t.” I looked away. “Growing up, my dad wasn’t around much.”