Page 3 of Unbearable

“Just a heads-up—Trent’s here,” Dorian said, breaking the silence.

What do you know? The one person I was trying to avoid.

Grandpa always referred to us as the “trouble trio”—Dorian, Trent, and I. Trent became a part of our lives when his father began working at our family ranch when the three of us weren’t even walking yet. Mr. Akers was a single father looking for a job, but he needed someone to look after Trent. With my mom at home caring for us, taking in another child was a natural fit, especially since it meant added help on the ranch. Trent quickly became an integral part of our family, with my brothers and parents treating him as one of our own.

My mom even used to joke around all the time about how Trent and I would grow up and get married. She’d laugh and say it with such certainty, her eyes twinkling with mischief. She’d tell everyone how we were destined for each other, like some fucking fairy tale she was writing in her head.

What a joke.

As kids, Trent and I would wrinkle our noses in disgust at the mere suggestion. The idea of marrying him was revolting to my childhood self and even more unthinkable now.

I’d rather die alone surrounded by a thousand dogs than ever marry that arrogant man.

Standing on the front steps of the church that I attended growing up only brought back more memories from the years I spent in Woodstone. Some good, some not—which was exactly why I avoided coming back for so long.

I hadn’t stepped foot on my family’s ranch since I left as a heartbroken nineteen-year-old, desperately searching for anything to make me whole. Returning now, years later, was incredibly surreal. There was an overwhelming sense of familiarity, yet at the same time, everything had changed.

The ranch house was surrounded by sprawling acres of land dedicated to cattle farming. This land had been in our family for generations, the business passed down like a cherished heirloom. Our family’s legacy was built on this ranch, and it remained a testament to our enduring heritage and commitment to the land. Located on the town’s outskirts, our nearest neighbors were the Reynolds brothers, with no one else residing nearby for miles around.

Daily operations on the ranch were extensive and demanding. From managing the cattle and maintaining the land to overseeing the employees who worked tirelessly alongside us, the work was unrelenting. It was more than a family business. It was a community, a way of life.

The people we employed were as much a part of the ranch’s identity as the cattle and the land itself. My father, with his relentless work ethic and deep pride, was the backbone of this enterprise. He poured his heart into every aspect of the ranch, ensuring that it thrived and grew, just as his ancestors had done before him.

As much as I loved the ranch and respected its significance, I always knew my place was not there, running it. Designing and building things always called to me, which resulted in me becoming a licensed architect.

For the past several years, I had made Seattle my home. While the city had its downfalls, it offered a sense of anonymity and freedom that the ranch could never provide. My career, my small social circle, and the comforting rhythm of my day-to-day life kept my world predictable, busy, and easy. Just the way I liked it.

Now, standing in this familiar yet foreign town I felt a deep, conflicting sense of nostalgia and detachment. The ranch was a living, breathing entity, full of memories and histories that shaped who I was, even if my path had led me away from it.

As the funeral concluded, people started to usher out of the church. I sighed and mentally prepared for the socialization that was to come.

Dorian leaned over and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Talk to a few people, make appearances, and then go hide in my car,” Dorian said, his soft side showing.

“It’s like you know me or something,” I said, and he smirked in response.

And so, I did as he asked. Accepted condolences, listened to people share their stories about Grandpa and talk about what a blessing it was that he was with Gram again.

As I was eyeing a path to head to Dorian’s car, attempting to avoid any more conversations, the church’s pastor approached me from a few feet away. I groaned but relented to yet another conversation. Jeremy was a nice guy, and his father had been the pastor for years before hepassed. Jeremy was a few years older than me, with streaks of gray starting to peek through his dark brown hair. And while we were never close friends, we were always friendly.

“Hi, Dotty. I wanted to offer my condolences. Your grandfather was a great man. Please let me know if there is anything we can do to support you.” He extended his hand, to which I took in a firm shake.

“Thank you, Jeremy.” We spoke for a few more minutes before he was pulled away by someone.

More people continued to come up to me, so I continued socializing, giving short answers before deciding I definitely fulfilled my quota. Sensory overload was starting to swallow me whole. Every sight and sound competing while my heart raced. The emotions of the day surged and collided in my body.

I excused myself and headed to Dorian’s car.

When I turned the corner to head to the parking lot, I smacked directly into what felt like a brick wall, except it was not brick, nor a wall.

Despite the time that had passed, I immediately knew the chest that my head collided with thanks to the signature scent of cedar and spice. The same scent as it was all those years ago.

My timing is impeccable.

“Dotty James. I see you made it back for the funeral,” Trent chuckled, his tone mocking. He grabbed my arms to steady me so I didn’t fall from the sheer force of running into him.

He looked different yet so familiar, standing tall with his broad shoulders and the same piercing green eyes that could see right through me. His presence was a reminderof the past, of all the unresolved emotions that had been left to simmer over the years.

“I do not have the energy to deal with you right now,” I scoffed.

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