Page 5 of The History Between Us

It shouldn’t have happened.

And most days, I’m able to push it out of my mind until late at night, but with him in the same room as me? Impossible. The memory rushes back; every feeling, every harsh breath, every touch, every sound, it’s right there in the forefront of my mind like it was last night.

Finally, and because I don’t want to be rude or raise concern, I let my gaze drift to Colt. He’s sitting directly next to my father on the couch, and it looks like he was showinghim something on his phone. His bright green eyes meet mine, a twitch of humor tugging on one corner of his lips.

“William, I didn’t know you were going to be here,” he drawls with that same tone of confidence and swagger he always has.

“Nice to see you, Colt,” I say plainly, taking a seat in one of the open recliners. “How have you been?”

His grin is blinding. “Oh, you know, living the dream. How’s Seattle?” he asks, with mischief dancing in his eyes. “Staying out of trouble?”

My throat constricts, and I find it hard to swallow as my heart pounds aggressively. “Seattle is great,” I grit out.

“I keep telling him to move back to Copper Lake,” my father chimes in. “But Will’s always been a stubborn one, and he won’t listen.”

Holding my gaze, Colt’s eyes narrow slightly as he says, “What a shame.”

Swallowing thickly, I tune in to whatever conversation Max is having with his dad, and spend the rest of the afternoon doing whatever I can to avoid Colt. It’s not easy, considering his extroverted, bubbly personality has no issue slipping into conversations. I swear, the entire dinner I don’t take a single full breath, scared that if I do, all of my secrets will spill out with the air in my lungs.

We live states away, and it’s just one day. It’s fine.

It’s not like we have to see each other on a regular basis, or at all, really. Surely, I can get through this one day, becauseit’s for my dad.

3

William Andino, Present Day

It’s a little after five when I lock up the office and head to my truck. Today was interesting, to say the least. Turning on the vehicle, I blast the air conditioning before rolling up the sleeves of my shirt. It’s hot as hell out, and it’s toasty enough in here to make sweat drip down the back of my neck almost immediately. A vast difference from the coolness that was my office. Reaching into the front pocket of my briefcase on the seat beside me, I pull out my phone and find the contact I’m looking for, hitting call. It only rings a few times before it connects, a deep voice coming through the line.

“Hello?”

“Hey, I’m on my way. Need me to stop at the market on my way and pick anything up?”

“No, got everything here. I’ll see you in a bit.”

It’s been an adjustment being back in Copper Lake. Living in Seattle for the last ten years has gotten me used to the hustle and bustle of the city. Coming back to my roots is such a significant difference. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it.

Not even fifteen minutes later, I’m driving down the long gravel road that leads to Grazing Acres Ranch. Memories from early in my childhood up until college flood my mind as the house and the barn come into view. Many a summer day spent working here, and many nights spent getting into trouble like teenage boys do.

Parking beside an old, beat-up Chevy truck that has to be nearly as old as I am, I turn my truck off and climb out.

“Will,” a gruff voice that I’d recognize anywhere says.

I round the truck, finding Conrad Strauss walking out of the barn, a grin on his face. “How the hell are you, friend?” I ask as we give each other a hug and a pat on the back.

“Oh, same old, same,” he mutters. “I can’t believe you’re back in town.”

“Me neither.” I laugh as we head toward the house.

Conrad and I have been friends since grade school. I remember learning to ride a bike with him and our other friend, staying out and riding up and down the gravel roads as fast as we can until the streetlights came on, and we had to go home. The house I grew up in was about a mile and a half down the road from the ranch, and it didn’t have nearly as much land as this place does. So many fond memories. We’ve kept in touch over the years, catching up every so often if I came into town, but it’s nice to be back and be able to do something as simple as a weeknight dinner with an old friend.

Once inside, Conrad grabs us a couple of beers, handing me one before taking a long pull off his own. I do the same, enjoying the crisp, cool taste on my tongue. “Man, it hasn’t changed a bit in here,” I mutter, glancing around the house that was once like a second home to me. This ranch has been in the Strauss family for generations.

“No, it sure hasn’t,” he agrees. “I was just going to grill some steaks, if that’s okay? I’ve already got the potatoes in the oven baking.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Conrad grabs a plate of the seasoned slabs of meat out of the fridge, and I follow him outside to where the grill is. There’s a large navy blue and white porch swing that I take a seat in while he gets to work. “How’s your dad doing?” he asks.

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