Page 63 of Rivals to Lovers
For now, Mo got to enjoy the furry little bundles. One of the wrestling puppies, a multicolored brown-and-black Bernedoodle, fell asleep on Mo’s lap while the puppy’s brothers continued flip-flopping around her dad’s legs. Anna returned a minute later, the mother dog at the end of a leash. Anna gave the dog an affectionate rub between the ears, then unlatched the harness. The dog’s nails clipped against the floor as she walked over to her puppies. Every puppy except the one in Mo’s lap ambled over to their mother, magnetized, and snuggled in to nurse.
“I think you and Mom had enough trouble with just the two of us. Can you imagine having seven at once?” Mo asked.
Her father gave her a level look. “Seven of you? Absolutely not. Seven Annas, well …”
Anna snorted, brushing her long blonde hair out of her face. “Dad,” she chided, stretching the word out long. She was sweaty from the early heat of the day, and Mo tried to picture her in twenty-four hours, clean and pristine and bridal.
“Do you and Kyle want kids?” Mo asked.
Anna smiled. “Maybe in a year or two.”
In a year or two, she would be the age Mo was now. Mo had such a different life than Anna did, but neither life was better or worse. Anna’s heart had found its purpose: in work, in love, in family. Mo longed for that kind of certainty. She didn’t need to get married or have children, but she admired how Anna knew what she wanted. How had they gone from two girls who made fart sounds in public and tried to catch turtles at Lake Rathbun to this—two women, responsible for much more than themselves and ready to take on more? “I want to be around more to see them,” Mo said, realizing it was true.
Her dad paused in petting the dogs on his legs to look at Mo carefully. “Really.” He didn’t say it with judgment, with the calm air of someone used to working with stubborn, unpredictable animals.
“You’re a natural with the dogs,” Anna said, glancing at Mo. “If you ever moved back, I think you’d be a good partner here. I’d love to have the help.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“Paid help. I’m not asking for favors. And not that I don’t believe in what you’re doing. I read your short stories, by the way.”
“How do you know about my short stories?”
Anna snorted and raised her eyebrows. “Mo, we do have the internet out here too. I check your website for updates. I even”—here she paused and wiggled her hands like spirit fingers—“subscribe to yournewsletter.”
Mo laughed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.”
“I’m saying you could write here too. If you wanted.”
“I wish I knew what I wanted,” Mo said, realizing as soon as she’d spoken she hadn’t meant to be that honest. She was used to pretending to know what she was doing. This instinct had served her well when she moved to the city. Eyes up, calm expression. People with confidence got what they wanted more than those without. But if you didn’t know what that was? What use was confidence?
Anna and her father were giving Mo identical, careful looks. Mo had gotten in late and taken a rental car to Anna’s place, snuck in the front door, and fallen dead asleep on the couch. With dog chores and frantic phone calls from the pastor and Mom and the family this morning, no one had had a chance to talk. Anna scooped the puppy from Mo’s lap and gave her a quick snuggle, then nestled her among the others. Mo’s father offered her a hand, raising her from the floor. “I think we need something stronger to add to our coffee,” he said, and he led his daughters out of the barn and toward the kitchen.
Irish cream swirled in Mo’s cup, and she traced her spoon in it, clanking it off the sides of the mug. It was easier to tell them everything with the warm cup in her hands. After she did so, Anna insisted on Googling Wes to see what he looked like. That was when Mo found out what had happened: The news had broken about the divorce. “An unnamed source had ascertained” it at a party, the tabloids reported. Mo’s heart fell. Someone had overheard them last night. An immense pang of guilt overwhelmed her, even as Anna scrolled through the article to find a picture of Wes. There he was, some photo from a stock vault of them, in a well-cut blue suit with a crisp white shirt underneath.
Mo bit her lip. The divorce was the one part of the story she had left out with Anna and her dad for the sake of confidentiality for Wes’s family, but now it didn’t matter. “It’s my fault the story is out there. You know how I said he was at the event last night? We talked about it, and—”
Anna touched Mo’s arm. “Secrets want to be out,” she said reassuringly. “I’m sure it sucks, but with celebrities, these things never stay hidden forever.”
Mo supposed that was true. It was the news’ job to break. It was everyone else’s job to pick up the pieces. At least now Wes wouldn’t feel the pressure to keep the secret.
Just the pressure to speak on it. The bottom of the article—all ten of them they had scrolled through—said that no one in the family could be reached for comment. Mo hadn’t checked her phone, but she did now. Mo stiffened when she realized she hadn’t gotten a text from Wes—still in her phone as King Sex God—and remembered she had blocked his number. Regret pooled in her stomach. Sometimes she forgot other people had feelings as big as hers. In the aftermath of the other night, she’d shut the door, but that wasn’t the right move. She unblocked him and textedI am so sorry that things blew up. I feel responsible.
She held the phone in her hand for a few minutes, waiting to see the bubbles of his response, but then realized it was as likely he had blocked her too. Even in the best case, if he hadn’t, his phone was probably a mess of notifications right now.
“I really might move back home,” she told her dad, staring out Anna’s kitchen window. The tent rental had arrived, and several beefy men were driving stakes into the middle of Anna’s huge front lawn. There were handsome men here andthere were social events. There were dogs and family and cities, even though they weren’tthecity. She could make a life here, and maybe she should.
“I think you’re trying to run away from your problems,” her dad said, gently patting her on the arm. “Not that I don’t want you closer. I know you could write here. I know you could have a life here, a full and rich life, like your mother and I have had. We travel to other places, but we’re always happy to land back home. I’m not sure you would be at this point, Mo-bear.”
She looked at him, wishing he had all the answers like he’d seemed to when she was little. “But what should I do?”
He took a sip of his coffee and gave her a level look. “You should do whatever you think is good. You’ve got the right head on your shoulders and the right brain in that head. You’ll find a way to make things right. And if this book isn’t the book that makes you an author? Well, then we’ll get everyone to order the one that is. We’re so proud of you, Mo. I’m so proud of you, just for being you.”
“Even though you couldn’t handle seven of me?”
“The world only has room for one, and it only deserves that many too.” He rubbed a hand across her cheek.
She realized she had teared up. There would be enough tears in the next twenty-four hours, and there had been enough in the twenty-four hours before. She wished she were a puppy right about now: happy to chill and tumble around, and where the worst mistake she could make was stepping on someone’s tail or peeing on the floor, and the biggest decision she could make was where to nap.
