Page 63 of Just Say When

“My eyes are up here, Essie.” I held up the deck of playing cards. “I don’t think wine is perishable.”

She grinned and handed me a glass. “Better safe than sorry. I figured we could eat dinner first, and then have the ice cream for dessert. Like real adults.”

I laughed. “Is that what the hummus is? Dinner?”

“It was either that or steak tartare.”

“I’m good with hummus.”

We took our glasses of wine to the living room and sat cross-legged on the floor.

“Thanks for cooking, dear.” I scooped a glob of hummus onto a cucumber slice and popped it in my mouth.

Essie smirked at me. “Icanactually cook, you know. We should do that sometime. Cook dinner together, I mean.”

I damn near swallowed my tongue along with my food. “Really?”

“Yeah. I like trying new recipes, but it’s more fun to cook with someone. Mom is a great cook, obviously, but by the time she gets home from the bakery, the last thing she wants to do is cook more food, you know?”

“That makes sense.” I took a gulp of wine to slow down my next words. To make them sound less eager than I really was. “Sure, we can do that whenever you want.”

She hummed happily and bit into a carrot with a loud snap.

“Speaking of your mom, what was that about at dinner the other night?” I asked. I focused on getting the perfect amount of hummus on my cucumber slice. Maybe if I didn’t look directly at her, she wouldn’t spook. “She didn’t seem to be very happy that you aren’t barrel racing anymore. Is she still hung up on you retiring?”

“Oh, that.” Essie made an annoyed sound and snapped a carrot stick in half. “She’s never been a big fan of change, you know. I mean, she started working at Sweetie Pie when she was sixteen, and she’s been there nearly every day since.Don’t fix what ain’t brokeis probably her favorite saying ever.”

I laughed. How many times had I heard Cat say that exact phrase? Too many to count. “That’s true.”

“She’s worried for me. That’s nothing new. She’s been worried about Jack and me since the day she peedon a stick. Worried I’d get pregnant. Worried I’d break my neck. But now it’s morphed into something different.”

I watched her play with her food and took another sip of wine. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know. Like she’s disappointed, maybe?” Her shoulders slumped a little. “Something changed when I turned thirty. People stopped worrying about me doing things too fast and started worrying I would do them too late, or not at all. Things like settle down, get married, have a baby.”

“I know the feeling,” I said. “Dad has hinted more than once that I was dropping the ball on his dream of having a baseball team worth of grandchildren.”

“But at least people think you’re a normal thirty-two-year-old, even if you aren’t married with kids yet. People have different expectations of men.” she said. “No one thinks I’m normal. It’s like everyone else got a memo on how adults were expected to behave, and no one told me. I keep disappointing people, and I don’t even know what I’m doing wrong. I mean, I’m responsible! I have a good savings account and I even put money in a Roth IRA. I have a job. But I guess none of that matters if you live with your mom or have rainbow hair.”

“Or if you retire early from a career when you’re still at your peak and pivot to a job where you’re a lowly apprentice?” I asked gently.

She groaned. “Mom will be mad about that forever.”

“Why did you quit, anyway?” I prodded.

Her chin jerked up. “I didn’t quit. I was done.”

I smirked a little at her fierce expression. That was my hellion, through and through. “Okay, why were you done?”

“Hm.” She looked at the fire, her face thoughtful. “Do you know who Serena Williams is?”

“Best tennis player to ever live? Never heard of her,” I deadpanned.

She rolled her eyes. “Okay. Well, you know she wasn’t unbeatable, but she was the best. And no one else during her career was ever going to be better, even if they beat her. That’s how it was for me in barrel racing. I wasn’t Serena Williams. Abigail Bryson was. Sometimes I was ranked number two in the world. The year I retired, I was ranked number three. Sometimes I won against Abby, and that was always fun. Mostly, though, she beat me. And that was fine. Honestly.”

The firelight flickered over her face and fuck, she was so pretty sitting there, eating hummus and drinking wine, telling me about herself. It was so quiet in here, without the hum of electricity powering the fridge and heat, the snow muffling the outdoor noises. There was just the sound of crackling fire, and Essie. I hoped the power never came back on.

I had missed this. Our friendship. I had missed this so fucking much.

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