Chapter 50 Hutch
Hutch
I was on my way home to shower and head straight to the ranch when Mom texted asking me to bring milk. So I quickly headed home to shower, let Oakley out and plugged in my laptop.
It's not long before I'm back on the road and stopping at a gas station a couple miles from the ranch.
I step inside to the soft twang of an old Dwight Yoakam song filling the tinny speakers and give a chin tip to the regular cashier, Johnny, before heading back to the cooler.
I grab a six-pack of beer and then a gallon of milk from the cooler and turn, nearly bumping into a couple behind me.
Recognition flickers in her eyes at the same time I realize who I’m looking at.
Janet and Carl Kessler.
Sarah’s mom stands stiff as ever, with her arms tucked in and her spine rigid, like she’s been training her whole life to look down her nose at people.
Her husband hovers a step behind her, mouth twisted like he’s caught a whiff of something rotten.
They’re older now, grayer, with more lines around their eyes, but not different enough for me to recognize them.
And that look she gives me? That hasn’t aged a day.
Her eyes drop to the beer in my hand. “Beer. At three in the afternoon,” she says. Not loud, but sharp enough to cut.
My jaw clenches involuntarily, heat creeping up my neck. That familiar, choking kind of shame that makes you want to disappear fills my throat and I scan the aisles to make sure no one’s watching this happen.
Then a soft voice cuts through the moment.
I look past them.
And I see her.
Sarah.
She’s standing by the checkout. Frozen mid-step, her hand resting lightly on the head of a little girl in sparkly pink boots.
She has the same honey-blonde hair, petite frame, and a man beside her.
He’s clean-cut, the collar on his dress shirt crisp and put together all the way down to the tips of his polished shoes.
His hand rests on the small of her back, easy, like it belongs there.
My eyes drop.
There’s a soft swell to her stomach, small but unmistakable.
My chest hollows out.
I don’t move. Don’t blink. I stare.
Janet’s voice cuts in again, smug now, in that practiced way she always had. “She found someone who could give her a real life. A stable man. A family. A future.”
Her words hit like a bullet to the ribs—quiet, but sharp. It’s like hearing the verdict to a sentence I didn’t know I was still serving. My fingers tighten around the milk jug handle, my throat thick with something hot and bitter.
Sarah’s father clears his throat, the look in his eyes a bit uneasy.
“Heard your brother Hank took over the Hayes ranch. Two little girls, right? Twins?” he asks like we’re old friends catching up over coffee, instead of ripping open a decades-old wound I’m fairly certain they had a hand in creating.
I nod tightly.
His eyes flick down to my hand, his brows lifting. “Ever the bachelor, I see.”
Her mother makes this sound in the back of her throat—almost a laugh, but meaner. “Some things really don’t change.”
My throat feels tight. Like I’ve swallowed ash. My eyes flick back to Sarah.
“She’s doing well now,” her father says as if I’m somehow going to ruin what she’s built. “Working at a dentist in Livingston. Building something real, with someone who doesn’t hold her back.”
But I’m barely listening now. The little girl tugs on Sarah’s hand, pulling her mother’s gaze away from mine.
No smile, no flicker of recognition or familiarity.
Like I’d never existed.
My eyes drop again to her belly. And that’s the part that guts me.
I never got to see her belly swell with our baby. Never got to be the man beside her.
I clear my throat, forcing the words out. “Have a good night.”
Neither of them says a word, and I somehow make it to the register where I hastily throw down a twenty before I turn and stumble out into the August heat.
I sit in the truck a minute longer than I need to. The milk’s sweating on the passenger seat. The beer too.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Mom: Where’s my milk? *Smiley face emoji *Heart emoji
I stare at it, thumb hovering, chest tight.
And suddenly I feel it—that familiar weight pressing down. The past on my back. The fear in my gut. That I’ll never be cut out for this kind of life.
Sarah’s dad’s voice echoes in my head.
Building something real. With someone who doesn’t hold her back.
Is that what I’m doing? Holding her back?
Not Sarah, but Ginger.
The woman who actually wants something solid from me. The bachelor with no real stability to offer a woman like her, much less one with two kids. I’ve been playing house like I have any idea how to be the man she deserves.
With my decision made, I put the truck in gear and drive the opposite direction.
I should’ve at least dropped the milk off. Should’ve gone in, smiled like I meant it, pulled Ginger away to kiss her stupid, asked how her day was. That’s what a good man would do. That’s what I meant to do.
By the time I pull up to the shop, Oakley’s barking from the yard like I’ve been gone a week, not an hour. I let him out of the run, then toss the milk on the hood of my truck without looking at it. I grab a beer, twisting off the cap to take a long pull.
It might as well be water. I leave it sweating on the porch rail and head to the shed to grab an axe and gloves.
The woodpile’s already full, but I split log after log anyway. Each swing cracks louder than it should. It feels like something inside me is trying to break open with every strike. Sweat rolls down my back. My shirt clings to my torso. My hands start to sting. They’ll probably blister.
It’s what I did when Sarah left. When I thought I was the reason she broke. When I thought maybe if I worked hard enough, I could splinter the ache into something useful.
It didn’t help then either.
By the time I stop, my arms are burning, and I’ve added three rows to a pile that doesn’t need more. It’s fucking July. Who uses this much firewood in July?
I walk back inside. Pop the cap on another beer. Take a sip.
I scroll through my phone. One missed text from Mom. Another from Ginger.
Ginger: Hey, foods ready. You on your way?
My thumb hovers. I start to type.
Hutch: Yeah, fine. Just forgot. On my way now.
Delete.
Ginger: Everything ok?
Hutch: Sorry. Got caught up.
Delete.
I lock the screen and set the phone face down, leaning against the sink. My pulse thuds in my ears. Not from the exertion. Not really.
From the look in Sarah’s eyes. From the one question I didn’t ask: Why was I not enough?
I scrub a hand down my face, toss my phone back on the counter, and go back outside.