Page 89 of Something Like Sunflowers

With love.

We march our way through the field, calf in tow and my checkbook in my purse, ready to bargain.

It occurs to me that we’re walking up a familiar bend. A ranch house with a clearing I remember from parties years ago. But who even owned this house back then, and who does now? An uneasiness churns in my gut as we reach the porch steps.

“Jonathan,” I call. He twists around, hand on the rail, and I take a moment under the glow of the porch light to really look at this kid. Blue eyes, tan skin, blond hair…

“Is your father—”

The door swings open, and I instinctively shove Jonathan behind me with Ellie and Porkloin. I feel oddly protective over all three of them right now, and I can’t explain that, but I’m rolling with my heart and my head these days, so here we go.

“Well, if it isn’t my own personal Highway Ho-Down,” Garrison Presley slurs, leaning on the doorframe. “Didn’t think pretty little buckle bunnies like you made house calls.”

He grins, but it isn’t a nice one. It’s a sloppy one. A drunk one. And as he peers behind me and takes in Jonathan’s and Ellie’s faces, and the livestock in tow, it morphs into something else entirely, and I wish I’d called Hunter after all.

He and Lemon tried to warn me about him, saying he’s changed since we were kids. He seemed normal enough to me in the safety of the publicly lit bar, but right now, he feels more like a stranger than the happy-go-lucky party boy I recall.

A drunk stranger, who sees his bloodied-up child, a stolen farm animal, and me in between.

Shit. This was not covered in fake wife OSHA training.

“Garrison, look, before this goes any further—”

His smile shifts as he takes in the scene, and I’m suddenly shoved to the side as he barrels down the front steps, kneeling before Jonathan and inspecting his face.

“What’s that little bitch done now?” he spits, whipping his head toward Ellie, who’s standing unashamedly proud in front of Porkloin. It’s a protective stance, and I wonder how she got to be so brave. Her papa would be proud of her, not limiting herself to cower in the presence of someone as toxic as Garrison Presley.

Ohhh, Pres.

“She’s a kid, Garrison. If you have something to say about her, you can speak with Hunter or me, the other adult here, instead of my—” I stutter to call her whatever she is to me, unsure of what she’d want, but also feeling a strong mama bear urge to claim her as my own. So, I just do.

“My child.”

“Your child?” He quirks his brow, entertained by this more than I’d like him to be, especially with how pungent the stench of whiskey is coming off his breath. Reminds me of my childhood, and I hate that for Jonathan. At least it doesn’t seem like Garrison wants him hurt. Or hurts him at all, for that matter.

From what Johnathan said, he just gets ignored.

I’m not sure if that’s any better. But I can guess the alcohol is part of it, because that look Jonathan has in his eyes, is one I know all too well.

I could crawl inside it and live through the same lenses without ever having left my own body at all. We’re the same, he and I.

He and Ellie.

And Hunter.

We’re wounded children in need of someone to guide us. Lost souls who find comfort in friends…and family in sacrifice. I’m only just now learning those things about myself.

Ellie steps forward, those glossy eyes burning like we both let them, refusing to let our tears be seen by anyone less than worthy. “That’s right! She married my papa, and that makes her my mother, too.”

“Oh, really?” Garrison coos, his voice sing-songy and unhinged, both menacing and mirthful, sending an uncomfortable prickle across my skin. His perfect lips stretch over his sinister face, and it’s devastating how handsome one can look when they are full of so much hate.

“You can tell your papa,” he puts the word in air quotes, “that your real fuckin’ father cost me everything! Caught the whole thing on fire.” His eyes burn with terror as his memories take hold of his words, a mix of agony and slurs.

“He watched the love of my life burn, burn, burrrrn. Diddde ever tell you bou’that?” He looks Ellie in the eyes, but he says it right to me, piercing me, a sharp blade, pinning me in place as I listen and twisting deeper as he goes.

“Samuel wasn’t only a killer. He was a thief. And from the looks of it, so’s his flesh n’ blood.” He nods to Porkloin who cowers behind Jonathan, shaking, the mere sound of Garrison’s voice a threat to the creature’s sanity. My fists clench at my sides. I have had it with this asshole. I don’t know what the hell he’s spewing about Sam, but I’m over this.

These are kids.

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