Page 156 of Role Play
“Hold on to mywaist, woman,” he shouts. “I’m going to crash if you keep touching me like that.”
Giggling, I tighten my grip around his waist obediently, pressing my cheek against his broad back as we bounce along the uneven terrain. The setting sun paints the Wyoming landscape in breathtaking hues of gold and amber, the vastness of it still overwhelming to my senses. I’ve never seen a sky so enormous, land so wide open it seems to stretch into infinity.
“Where are we going?” I call, my voice nearly lost in the wind.
“Patience!” he answers, although the excitement in his voice is palpable even over the engine’s roar.
We’ve been driving for about fifteen minutes, leaving the main ranch property behind and winding our way throughrolling hills dotted with scrubby pine trees. I’m starting to regret my outfit choice—blue-jean shorts and a white tank top might have seemed like appropriate “cowgirl” attire when I packed in New York. I severely underestimated November in Wyoming. Especially riding the ATV, the cold wind bites to the bone.
We crest a small hill, and Forrest slows to a stop. Ahead of us stands a structure I hadn’t noticed on our drive in—the wooden skeleton of what looks like a half-built barn, silhouetted against the darkening sky.
“We’re here,” Forrest announces, cutting the engine.
The sudden silence is profound, broken only by the soft whisper of wind through the tall grass and the distant call of a bird I can’t identify. Forrest climbs off the ATV first, then offers me his hand.
“What is this place?” I ask, accepting his help.
“My house. Or what was supposed to be my house, anyway. It’s a barndominium.”
I follow him toward the structure, curiosity piqued. As we step in, I can see it’s much more than a barn—it’s the framework of a home, with clearly defined rooms and large windows facing the breathtaking view of the mountains.
“My senior year of high school, Dad and I started this project,” Forrest explains, his hand warm against the small of my back as he ushers me in farther. “Said I could build my own place here if I wanted. We started that summer—laid the foundation, framed it out. We were going to work on it each summer until I graduated. Then, I’d move in.”
“But you never finished it?” I guess, understanding dawning.
“I met Hannah. I got into law school. We got pregnant with Dakota. And a million and one other excuses as to why this didn’t make sense anymore.”
“This would’ve been amazing,” I say in awe, spinning around in place, soaking up every inch of potential.
He runs his hand along one of the support beams. “Now it’s unfinished business.”
“What was this part going to be?” I lightly stomp my foot against the floor.
“This would have been the living room,” Forrest says, guiding me through the space. “Big windows to catch the sunrise. Kitchen over there—Dad insisted it be big enough for a proper table. ‘No eating on the couch,’ he said.”
I smile, imagining a younger Boone and Forrest working side by side, planning it all out together. “It’s beautiful, Forrest. Even unfinished.”
“Down here would’ve been two bedrooms,” he continues, leading me through what would have been a hallway. “And this…” He stops in a large space at the back of the structure. “This would have been the master bedroom. Windows facing west for the sunset. Planned to build a deck off it right there.”
I stand in the center of the would-be bedroom, closing my eyes and picturing it finished. Through the open framework, I can see the mountains in the distance, painted in deepening purples as the sun continues its descent. Despite its incomplete state, there’s something magical about this place—a dream deferred but not forgotten.
“Promise me something,” I say, turning to face him.
“What’s that?” He tilts his head, eyes curious in the fading light.
“Promise me you’ll finish it someday. This house. If for nothing else, it deserves to be completed.”
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, then warmth that reaches his eyes. “I promise,” he says softly, and I believe him.
A gust of wind sweeps through the open structure, and I can’t suppress a shiver. My bare arms pebble with goose bumps, andI wrap my arms around myself in a futile attempt to ward off the chill.
Forrest shakes his head, mouth quirking in amusement. “Why in the world would you wear shorts and a tank top in the middle of November in Wyoming?”
Heat that has nothing to do with the temperature rushes into my cheeks. “I, um, may have underestimated the seasonal differences between New York and Wyoming. I brought what I thought was cowgirl attire…” I gesture at my outfit with a self-deprecating shrug. “Summer cowgirl, apparently.”
His laugh is warm and rich as it echoes through the home. “So you were willing to freeze your ass off to play dress-up.”
“You said I’d look good as a cowgirl. I was trying,” I protest, but I’m laughing too.
