Page 70 of Claiming What Is Mine

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“What do you mean?” Chet asks, confused.

“Partners? Since when?” My eyes flit back and forth between my brothers, looking for someone to acknowledge my point of view, but Chet and Hank stare back at me with blank faces.

“What?” I demand.

“Do you really not see yourself as a partner?” Hank asks. “Hell, I spent most of my time here screwing around drinking beer or riding four-wheelers. But you? We would have lost this ranch years ago, if it wasn’t for the two of you.”

Now I’m the one staring blankly. “Do you really think he’s ever said anything to offer, even a hint, that he sees us as partners?” I ask Hank as I aim the neck of my bottle at Chet.

Hank leans in to me, putting himself within whisper distance. “I thought you were supposed to be smart?” He sits back and laughs before taking a drink from his beer. “Chet doesn’t express everything with words, man. But I think he’s made his position plenty clear along the way.”

“That’s…” I look back and forth at my brothers, caught between feelings of pride and disbelief. “I can’t process this right now.” I sigh and stare at the counter. “Not until I’ve figured out what went wrong, and what it’s going to take to get her back. I can’t stomach losing her again, much less ending up a weekend warrior dad to my child.”

“Gabe, I’m sure you meant well, but did you stop to ask her what she wants?” Chet asks.

Goddamn, I hate it when he does that. It’s not so much that he might be right, it’s like, because of the way he talks, all succinct and to the point, it makes whatever he says sound so damned obvious.

“Of course, I did.” I grit my teeth. “Let’s suppose you’re right though. Given where we are now, how about some advice on how I can correct the problem?”

And why the hell weren’t you around before I went wading into the deep end, in the first place?

Chet picks up his Stetson and squares it on his head. “Someone I trust gave me a nickel’s worth of advice once, maybe it could help you too.”

Chet trusts someone?The thought catches me by surprise. “Okay, hit me with it.”

“He told me to talk to her. Good or bad, don’t let another good one slip away.” Chet stands to leave. “Talk to her brother.”

I shake my head, undecided if that was wasted breath, or brilliant and insightful. “Chet, before you go—who gave you the advice?”

Chet cracks a smile. “You,” he says, before closing the door behind him.

Hank looks at me with wide eyes. “Maybe you are smart,” he jokes. “But probably not, or you wouldn’t have put yourself in this situation to begin with.”

“Thanks for the support, jerk.” I smile.

Hank stands to throw his empty in the trash and stops behind me, putting his hand on my shoulder. “You gonna be okay?”

I bob my head. “I’ll be alright. Thanks man.”

“Hey, we’re family. I’m here for you. As long as there’s beer in your fridge, anyway.”

“Speaking of—grab me another while you’re up?” I ask.

“Sure thing.” Hank opens the refrigerator and retrieves two more bottles.

“So, what’s going on with the, mechanic-for-hire thing?” I ask, hopeful for a distraction.

Hank hands me my beer as he plops down on his stool. “Not much to tell. Our name is enough for folks to take a chance on me, you know, the first time. After that, what can I say, my work speaks for itself.”

The topic change is welcome, and hearing Hank talk about something he’s so passionate about is a side of him I’ve never seen. And, at least the way he describes it, he might actually turn his hobby into something real—if he doesn’t pull one of his stunts and screw it up first.

After his second beer, Hank notices the time and takes off for home, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Even worse, around six pack thirty, I get the wise idea to text Meredith. Because, you know, drunk plus emotional—that always helps.

Me: Mer, about today. I forgive you for overreacting.

Me: And I’m sorry too.

Me: Please call me.

What can I say, it seemed like a good idea at the time?

My eyes grow heavy and I sleep like a baby. If I had to guess, the alcohol may have had something to do with it. But after waking with fresh eyes and a clear head? I can’t stop staring at those words.

I’m seriously never drinking again.

What do I do? Send an apology text? Explain that I was drunk? Should I call? She never replied to my messages, does that mean she’s still as pissed as she was yesterday? Would it be better to just show up? The magnitude of the conversation does merit a face to face, but…what if she won’t see me?

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