Page 151 of Role Play
“Reserved?” she supplies.
“That’s a polite way of putting it.” I grin. “But Dakota brings out the best in people. And he seems to really like you.”
“The feeling is mutual.” She looks toward the house, where he’s now showing Dakota how to stomp the mud off her shoes before entering. “I’m glad we came, Forrest. This feels so important.”
“Yeah,” I agree, the weight of the moment settling around us. “It is.”
Together, we carry the bags toward the house, the clean, crisp November air filling our lungs with each step. Whatever else happens this weekend—however many uncomfortable questions I have to answer, however many truths I have to face—this moment, right now, feels like coming home in the truest sense of the word.
For once in my life, I’m not pretending. I’m showing Sora my true colors, my humble life almost a world away from New York City, and she’s still looking at me like I’m the prize.
All the times I was bitter that Hannah wouldn’t visit Wyoming with me. All her resistance and rejection pissed me off at the time, but now I’m grateful. I had to wait, because it was never just about coming home…
It was about coming home with the right girl.
chapter 30
Sora
“Now, you’d normally make this with cayenne pepper, but I leave it out for Forrest,” Boone says, demonstrating each measurement of various spices with weathered hands that move with surprising grace for a man who spends his days with farm equipment and cattle. His fingers, though callused and marked with the tiny scars of manual labor, handle the delicate spices with unexpected precision. “The secret’s in the balance. Too much spice overpowers the meat. The meat is the star, we’re just dressing it up.”
I nod solemnly, treating his chili recipe with the reverence of ancient scripture. Here in this warm kitchen with the scent of spices hanging in the air, I feel a connection to something primal and essential.
“Now do we add the brown sugar?” I ask, my wooden spoon poised over the pot.
“Not yet,” he cautions, his bushy eyebrows drawing together in a way that reminds me so much of Forrest when he’s concentrating. “Sugar goes in last. Let the spices marry first.” Hetaps the side of the pot with a gnarled knuckle. “Gotta give ’em time to get acquainted.”
Through the kitchen window, I can see Dakota darting across the front yard in gleeful pursuit of actual, honest-to-god wild rabbits. Her delighted squeals float through the glass as she zigzags between patches of grass, hands outstretched but never quite fast enough to catch her prey. Her jacket—a bright pink spot against the muted browns and hidden greens of the Wyoming landscape—has come partially unzipped, and her hair streams behind her like a flag.
“She’s having the time of her life,” I observe, smiling at the sight.
Boone’s expression softens as he watches his granddaughter, the lines around his eyes crinkling deeply. “City kids don’t get much chance to chase real critters, I reckon.”
“The only thing close to wildlife in Brooklyn—outside of the two-legged variety—are feral squirrels. They’re basically tiny mobsters who’ve figured out how to mug tourists for pretzels.”
Boone chuckles, the sound warm and so unexpectedly youthful, it’s like Forrest flashes before my eyes for a brief moment. He stirs the chili with practiced motions, his plaid shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal forearms mapped with blue veins and old scars. Each mark tells a story of this life he’s built.
“Dakota was supposed to be our sous-chef, wasn’t she?” he asks, glancing out the window again where his granddaughter has now stopped to examine something in the dead grass with intense four-year-old concentration.
“The call of the wild was too strong to resist,” I say with a dramatic sigh. “She abandoned us for bunny hunting after about forty-seven seconds.”
“Kids her age have the attention span of a hummingbird,” Boone says wisely, a fond smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “It’s good for her. She needs country air.” He tastes thechili, considers for a moment, then adds a touch more salt with a flick of his wrist that speaks of decades of cooking this same recipe.
I stir the simmering pot, inhaling the rich aroma of spices and slow-cooked beef. The kitchen is cozy, lived-in, with well-worn countertops and cabinets that have witnessed decades of family meals. Photos line the refrigerator—mostly of Forrest at various ages, from gap-toothed kindergartner to serious high school graduate. In one corner, I spot a newer addition: a school portrait of Dakota that I recognize from Forrest’s wallet.
Looking at these snapshots of Forrest’s life before I knew him creates a strange ache in my chest—a wistfulness for the moments I missed, for the boy who became the man I’m falling for. Here he is at seven or eight, proudly holding up a fish nearly as big as himself. There, astride a pony with a look of determined concentration. Gangly teenage Forrest in a football uniform, his smile uncertain but hopeful.
“You know,” I say, nodding toward the window where we can see Dakota back in hot pursuit, “I didn’t play much outside as a kid. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t have a bad childhood or anything, but my memories as a kid are of going toWickedon Broadway, or dinners out on the town. Nothing like this.”
“That so?” Boone measures out a careful portion of corn starch, his hands steady despite their slight tremor—a detail I hadn’t noticed before. He glances at me with genuine interest, his eyes attentive beneath the brim of his indoor hat, which I’ve learned is different from his outdoor hat, though they look identical to my untrained eyes.
“Oh yeah. White dresses, patent-leather shoes, the works. I was like a miniature adult at social functions.” I laugh, though it comes out a bit hollow. “This might be better,” I say, jutting my chin to the window where Dakota is darting in and out of view. “Messier, but…better.”
“Nothing wrong with a little dirt,” Boone says, holding out the canister of brown sugar. His hand brushes mine in the exchange, rough and warm. “Builds character.” He nods toward the pot, indicating it’s time for the sugar to go in.
Through the window, I watch Forrest emerge from behind the barn, toolbelt slung low on his hips. Even from this distance, I can see the determined set of his shoulders as he surveys the property, mentally cataloging every repair needed. He’s been at it since breakfast, disappearing almost immediately after our arrival to tackle one project after another.
Boone follows my gaze and makes a tsking sound, shaking his head slowly. “Boy’s trying to cram about three months’ worth of work into one weekend because he feels guilty.” His voice holds equal measures of pride and concern, the complex emotion of a father watching his son push himself too hard.
