Chapter 42 Ginger
Ginger
The booth at the Spinning Pie is crowded with the five of us, the table littered with napkins, crusts, and half-drunk root beers for the boys.
Despite the flight, Jordan was wired, and even though Tate was usually the quiet one, they spent the next hour talking over each other as they gave the table a rundown of the last three weeks.
There’s an unusual lull in the chatter when the boys are served their small ice cream sundaes and they dig in.
“What have you got planned for the rest of your time here?”
I finish chewing and wipe my hands on my napkin. “I’m not sure. I promised them some horseback riding, and I know Paige is excited to spend some time with them.”
“Can we go back to the lake?” Jordan asked, mouth full of ice cream. “Last summer, we went, and Hutch had, like, a million floaties,” he says, gesturing with his spoon.
Tate’s brows pull down. “The flamingo one tipped me over. We ate chips on the water, and they got all soggy.”
Hutch chuckled under his breath. “Pretty sure you two swallowed more lake water than chips.”
Peter smiles as he wipes a smear of ice cream from Jordan’s cheek. “Sounds like a good time.”
“It was,” I say, nodding.
The boys barrel on—jabbering about the park where Hutch’s softball games are held, and how they really want to go back to the ranch to see Duke and Emily, but mostly Emily because she gives them cookies and apple pie.
They recount the bonfire at Hutch’s last summer and how they ate their fill in s'mores.
Peter glances across the table as Jordan moves onto topics like Paige and her bug collection and when baby Huck will be born. Not at me, but at Hutch. It’s a quick flicker. Assessing, like maybe he’s trying to figure out what Hutch’s role is in being here.
I’ve never mentioned Hutch to Peter before—why would I?
Up until the road trip, we hadn’t had much to do with one another. “Sounds like you’ve got good memories from last time,” Peter says casually.
I nod, and the boys chime in their ‘yeps’. Hutch doesn’t look up from his plate, but tears off a piece of crust and keeps chewing. He’s quiet, but it isn’t strained. He’s relaxed, making space for the boys to chatter away.
Peter leans back, arm draped along the booth. “I showed the boys around the neighborhood, took them to some pretty cool parks, and to the market. I think they enjoyed it,” he says, and I nod. “The school there has this big playground—Jordan lost his mind over the climbing wall.”
I nod, managing a smile. “That sounds nice.”
“It is. It’s a good setup.”
That’s it. One sentence. Peter doesn’t push, but he's always had this way of making logic seem like the best choice, the only one that made sense. He’d been that way when we were married too.
He’d lay out a plan and then use carefully constructed words to make it seem like what he was thinking should be the obvious choice.
I don’t think it was ever meant as a manipulation, but the meaning was there, under the surface. Things could be so easy. Especially for him and the boys.
Tate yawns and I reach over to brush the hair back from his forehead. Hutch hasn’t said anything in a while, but he's there. Aware. I can tell by the way his hand stills on his beer bottle, the way he flicks his glance at me. He's listening. Taking it all in.
“You still playing ball?” Peter asks, taking a sip of his Negroni, his familiar fingers gripping the glass.
The drink is the perfect picture of Peter. It's something he orders often, deep red and bitter. Even the glass it's poured into screams fancy rooftop bar with mood lighting and the soft drizzle of rain on glass.
Flicking my gaze to Hutch and his half empty beer bottle, he tips it back casually with a nod. It's the kind of drink you crack open after a long day of hard work in the sun, or for a day out on the lake.
The contrast hits me harder than it should.
And it isn’t just the liquor or the vessel both drinks came in.
It’s also the way Peter sort of seems to shift the conversation to school districts and parks near his house in Seattle, while Hutch simply exists, laughing with the boys about something or other; the way he seems unaffected. Comfortable.
One looks like Seattle and decisions made for altruistic reasons and the other feels right. Family dinners with Hank, Wren and the girls. Shopping with Hales & Finn and summer camping trips at the lake. Like home.
But that’s ridiculous, right?
Timber Forge is temporary. A break from the norm. A visit. A way to catch my breath before I figure out what comes next. But sitting here with Hutch and the boys, at some hole-in-the-wall pizzeria in Bozeman, Montana, I can see it.
“Summer league. Saturday games, mostly. The occasional Sunday.”
“Can we go? Mom? Can we?”
“If Hutch doesn’t mind,” I say, glancing in his direction.
“That’d be great,” Hutch murmurs, throwing a wink at Tate.
The smile on Peter’s face looks forced. “That’ll be fun. They won’t get that kind of thing in the city.”
I feel my spine straighten—not because Peter is wrong. But because it sounds like he’s already decided. Like Seattle is a sure thing. A better thing.
The kids keep chattering, and the waitress drops off the check. Peter reaches for it, because of course he does.
“Let me get this,” he says. “Least I can do for keeping you guys all afternoon.”
It hasn’t been all afternoon, but I don’t make a fuss. Hutch still hasn’t said much. But when we stand to let Tate out of the booth, his hand brushes my lower back—lingering, unintentional, but firm. Like he’s letting me know he sees me.
I look up at him. A knowing smile tipping up his full lips, but he doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t need to.