Page 112 of Don't Take the Girl
He runs a heavy hand through his hair. "The elaborate plan we concocted to get your dad back to Hale Ranch would have worked. I'm sure he would have booked the first flight back to Bardstown when he received word you didn't come home after riding out to do chores." His voice carries a heaviness that wasn't there before, like he's been wrestling with this decision for days. "But I don't think getting him there with another lie is the best move, even if its intent is in the right place."
He's not wrong. The divide that exists between our fathers was built on lies, betrayals, and stubborn pride. It has lasted decades, and adding another deception—even one born from desperation and love—would have only been salt in a wound that's never properly healed. Trigg and I are laying the groundwork for a new future, one where blood bonds mean something, and family is strength. That shouldn't start on the back of a lie, no matter how small.
"Yeah, I get it," I say, my voice quieter now. "A lie wrapped in good intentions is still a lie." We've both seen the wreckage that well-meaning deceptions can leave behind. I'm currently a walking fucking billboard.
I push off the door with a long exhale—the kind that carries years of frustration and the weight of decisions I never wanted to make. "Let me grab my keys. I needed to head into town anyway. Asha told me she suggested that Laney start using body butter sooner rather than later, something about preventing stretch marks." I shake my head at how much lighter I feel, focusing on something I can actually control. "I want to swing by the drugstore and pick some up to leave on her windowsill."
"Body butter?" he questions quizzically, his nose scrunching up like I just suggested buying her a stick of actual butter from the dairy aisle.
"Yeah, it's expensive lotion," I say, rolling my eyes after supplying the obvious answer.
"Then why don't they just call it lotion? Butter is something you put on toast, not your body," he says with a visible cringe.
"Becauseexpensive-ass lotion that will cost you more than your grocery billdidn't fit on the label," I say dryly, unable to keep the corner of my mouth from twitching upward despite everything.
"Maybe this time you should write in your note that you'd be happy to apply it," he jokes, waggling his eyebrows in a way that would've made me laugh under different circumstances.
My hand freezes on the doorknob, and the lightness in my chest evaporates. "She tells you about the notes?"
He can tell I didn't know that and that the notes are personal. I'm not upset that she's sharing them. If she's sharing them with him, that means she's thinking about me, but God, I wish it were me she was talking to, not him. I wish I were the one hearing her thoughts about the words I pour onto paper at three in the morning when sleep won't come.
"I know you leave the packages on her windowsill." His voice is quieter, recognizing the wound his flippant comment just made. It's not his fault that the only woman I've ever loved is pushing me away but still opens her window to take what I leave there. "Sometimes she tells me about the notes..." He shrugs. "But not always. When she doesn't tell me about them, I assume she doesn't want to talk about what they say."
The admission gives me confirmation that my words are reaching her, that they matter enough to keep private sometimes. That maybe, in those moments she chooses not to share, she's holding something of mine close to her chest.
"Help me get my girl back," I say, my voice fracturing on the last word.
"Why do you think I'm here?" His response comes without hesitation, but there's something raw underneath the certainty. He steps closer, close enough that I can see the circles that have formed under his eyes. He's losing sleep too. "She became the sister I didn't know I was missing these past few months." His voice drops, weighted with something more profound than mere affection—he loves her.
I can't blame him. She's hard not to love. The way she hums while making coffee, how she picks up after us just to check our trash for items to put in her junk journal, and the Sunday dinners she started making at the ranch. Having her at the ranch made the place feel more like a home than it had in years.
"I love her like family," he continues, his jaw tight. "She's carrying your baby, which makes her family." He turns toward thestreet, and I know it's to hide the intensity of emotions threatening to crack his composure. "She is family."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we're not saying. This is new territory for us. The scent of apple pie floats through the air with the breeze, and when he finally looks back at me, his eyes are glossy with unshed tears.
"So yeah," he says, his voice rougher now, "I'm here. And I'm not leaving until we bring her home."
Sure, Trigg and I talk, but never like this. This level of depth is new for us. We're revealing ourselves, brick by careful brick, showing what we want to see rising from the ashes of our fathers' mistakes. All week, I've been focused on my regrets, the mistakes I made that drove her away not once but twice. I've struggled with the word and its weight, especially as I confront the stark truth: I wounded someone whose love runs deeper than my own veins, someone I would die to protect yet somehow still managed to destroy. The cruelest irony is that I can't say I'd wish it away.
How do you mourn choices that felt like salvation in the moment? How do you regret the very decisions that kept you breathing when drowning felt inevitable? How do I regret the choices that led me to my brother? Were it not for my missteps, the man standing next to me might still be a stranger, and I may never have gotten this chance to heal a decades-old family divide that has festered like an untreated wound.
"I'm glad you're here," I say, even though when he showed up on my doorstep, I wasn't.
Do I have regrets? Yes. But what's worse than my regrets is knowing I'd probably make them again, knowing that love sometimes means choosing the wrong thing for the right reasons. But finding Trigg and blazing a new trail for our family's legacy has opened my eyes to another thought. To be human is to be flawed. Breaking a cycle isn't about perfection but rather being brave enough to face the wreckage and sift through the ashes of your mistakes. It means having the humility to say I was wrong and the strength to try again, even when failure feels like certainty.
He snorts, his amusement a welcomed contrast to the heaviness of our conversation. "Yeah, well, your welcome was about as warm as a January funeral. Good thing I'm stubborn as hell." The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Must run in the family."
Despite everything, the weight crushing my chest, the fear clawing at my throat, I feel my mouth twitch. It's the first smile I've managed in days.
"I'll get my keys."
Standing here with him, feeling the weight of shared understanding, I realize that redemption isn't about erasing the past. It's about refusing to let it write the ending. It's about having the audacity to believe that broken things can be made whole again, that love is stronger than the mistakes that nearly killed it.
I smile, and this time, it reaches my eyes. Time to prove how strong our love really is. She said I didn't give her a reason to stay. Time to show her I am the reason.
As soon asI returned from having a beer with Trigg and picking up Laney's body butter, my dad sent me to the backyard to set up the table. The nights have just started to cool down as summer comes to an end, and he had me bring out the gas fire pit that runs down the center of the table for ambiance. Aside from setting up the table, putting out the plates and napkins, and filling the drink cooler with beverages, there wasn't too much that needed to be done. My father has always taken pride in keeping a well-manicured lawn, with every hedge trimmed just so, and Edison bulbs strung across the patio to create a cozy atmosphere. The only thing that's changed since I left is that he does all the heavy lifting himself, whereas I used to be the one helping to keep the yard immaculate.
"London, can you run inside and grab the condiment tray from the refrigerator," my dad asks as he walks out the back door with a tray of buns.
