Page 80 of Building What's Meant to Be

Chapter Seventeen

TINSLEY

After my third lesson on beekeeping from Bubba’s mother, his wife Tammy brings me back to Aiden’s property. She said she welcomed the time with another adult woman after being with the kids most of the day. She and I are opposites in almost every way, but with the windows down we both sing along to a PJ and the Oak Brook Boys song and chat about the updates to the BBQ joint. I also asked if she had any family photos that I could use for a project at the restaurant.

We remain in the car, gabbing until the sun is about to set. When I wave goodbye and go inside the trailer, I realize that I’m still smiling. Wouldn’t you know it? I think I made a friend.

After freshening up, I alternate between watching YouTube videos about bees and baking tutorials. I listen for Aiden’s motorcycle and eventually must doze off after the long day working at Sweethearts and learning to spackle.

Who have I become?

A scratching sound wakes me from a dream about a river of honey. I bolt to sitting and listen carefully. The moon is high in the sky and paints the field surrounding Toby with an eerie, ethereal shade of pale white.

I step away from the window, not quite sure I want to see whatever is out there. Aiden’s Murder Doll, trying to escape the trunk of the Maybach? He used to tell Bess and Mae ghost stories, and I’m starting to wonder if they’re real. Or if I’m going to be a victim of some dastardly urban legend, er, rural legend.

Getting back in bed, I tell myself to ignore it and go to sleep. The trailer door is locked. I keep my phone charged and within reach. It’s probably just a curious critter. Harmless. Definitely not a Sasquatch hungry for human flesh.

The night noises of birds, bugs, and branches blowing in the wind seem especially loud tonight. Was that the scratching? Footsteps? Is someone breathing heavy? I swallow thickly.

Tammy told me about the pack of wild hogs they had to chase from their property the other night. I’m not quite brave enough to go outside to scare it off—I haven’t been in the country that long to gum up what Tammy called “Country Courage.” And I don’t want to bother Aiden again.

There was a protective ferocity in his eyes that night he came down on the quad that scared me. Not for my welfare, but for anyone who crossed him. He alternates between being a laid back capable country guy who works hard, a slick businessman who’s no stranger to a devastating smolder, to someone else—an alpha male who’ll burn down anything in his path if it means protecting those he loves.

Including me, it turns out.

Aiden told me he loved me. In much the same way that I do my level best not to think about what’s lurking outside, I’ve tried to clear those words from my mind. To cancel them. To forget them.

They scare me because no one has ever said them to me before. Not my parents or siblings. Not previous guys I’ve dated or anyone in my life.

No, that’s not true. When we left Texas after the one visit to my grandparents, they told me they loved me. I didn’t want to leave their house and had one of my renowned Tinsley Tantrums. My grandmother kissed the top of my head and uttered those words. My parents had to cart me off, kicking and screaming.

I wanted to play in the mud, drink from the hose, and pick wildflowers.

Mother would have none of that. As we drove away with my face plastered to the car window, she said, “This was a mistake. We never should have come.”

Dad retreated to steely silence while she complained and nagged us kids.

See, the thing is, I can’t allow myself to get too attached. I’ll let myself have fun while this lasts, but we’re on day twenty-three of my community service. Only seven to go. What then? I’ll go back to my life. Right?

My mind swarms with thoughts about the past and future, but what I need to do is sleep right now.

Letting out a sigh, I sit back up and give the box my brother gave me a little kick. I’d forgotten about it in the BMW and Officer Henley brought it to me since my name was printed on it before the car went back to New York.

Flipping on a light, I open the flap and find relics from high school and even from when I was younger. Books, notes, keepsakes, and a T-shirt from a theater production. I flip through photos, glimpsing who I was before I tried to fit in and stand out.

Sounds like an oxymoron, but I molded myself into who I thought my peers would like while also being such a brat three nannies quit before my parents found one who, unbeknownst to them, just left me to my own devices. At the time, that waspredominantly my device where I captured every moment of my life on social media.

Who cared about my grooming habits, shopping sprees, or nightlife? It turned out a lot of people. I have millions of social media followers. But the minute I got into a sticky situation by being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong person—I’m looking at you, Puma!—all those people “forgot” that I exist.

I find a glossy program from a high school theater production. I played, of all things, a farm girl. I pull the plaid shirt from my costume. Still fits even if a little snug. I tie it at the bottom. This feels like a trend in the making.

Since the shirt still fits does that mean I could still be that girl? Rather, a woman now?

I always wanted to get to the top, but I imagine it’s lonely up there and likely there’s always further to go, a never-ending, never satisfying climb. I’d rather remain here with friends, meaning, and purpose.

For years, I thought I was independent. An influencer. A trendsetter. Turns out I’m a follower like in my diva dream. It floods back now and I recall feeling self-conscious about viewers seeing every pore, every fake eyelash, the mole above my lip which sometimes sprouts hairs, and every age line...all of it. All of me.

I wanted them to see me, and yet I didn’t.

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