Page 65 of When It's Us
Was it my imagination, or did he look uncomfortable when I asked him to keep things between us? God, he’s so hard to read sometimes.
As I’m about to step inside, he calls out. “Hey, California?”
I stop and turn around to face him, hand on the doorknob. “Yeah?”
“You’re not as annoying as I thought, either.”
A smile pulls up my lips. “Thanks.”
Hutch
I’mnottoostubbornto admit that walking away from Ginger Westbrook was a lot harder than it should have been. Taking her stuff out of the van for the last time at Hayley’s felt wrong. Like, where it and she should be was right across from me. The van feels empty as I drive out of town toward the ranch. Her scent still lingers but it’s not enough. That thought is both foreign and jarring.
But it doesn’t matter what I want. She’s here for Wren. And she’s not mine. Not even close. I haven’t got a right to her, and don’t want one. Not really. I’m feeling slightly off kilter because I can’t have her. This shit will pass. At least that’s what I tell myself as I hang a right onto the dusty, split rail fence road leading to my childhood home.
So why does it rub me wrong that I only ever got a couple of nights with her? Like an itch on my back that I can’t quite reach. I know this is what I agreed to. What happens on the road trip stays on the road trip. And I am nothing if not a man of my word. But if that’s the truth, why am I already wondering when I’ll see her again?
Pulling up to my parents’ house, I park next to Hank’s truck.
His life used to be nothing but this ranch, and I guess on some level, it still is. He’s still here every day, working his ass off to preserve what our Pop built thirty-plus years ago. Ever since he and his wife Wrenley had their twins, he’s shifted priorities.
Golden light silhouettes the house I grew up in, and the mountains and tree line beyond it are as familiar as the back of my hand. I grew up riding dirt bikes in these hills, and with my brothers and sisters, we’ve explored every inch of the woods. Friday night bonfires as kids turned into more of the same as adults, though not as often, and family dinners with countless games of corn hole have taken up most of the time I’ve spent here recently.
Opening my door, I climb out, and Oakley, my golden retriever, comes trotting out from the barn. His tail picks up and wags his entire back end before he lets out an excited bark and tears toward me. He slams into my legs, jumps up, paws on my shoulders when I bend down, whining like crazy.
“Hey, buddy,” I whisper as he attacks my face with his tongue. “You miss me?”
Oakley lets out a series of whiny yelps, which causes my brother Hank’s dog, Tucker, to come tearing out of the barn, too. He barrels into me, and then they proceed to play a rousing game of who can be the loudest while I push to my feet.
I grin and shake my head at them, turning toward the main house. But when I hear voices from the stables, I head in that direction instead.
My brothers are inside, likely coming back from riding. Hudson turns when he hears my footsteps, pausing in removing the saddle from Mom’s horse, Mystic.
“Hey, asshole,” he calls out.
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “What’s up, fucker?”
Hank looks over from where he’s untacking his horse Apollo, but in typical broody asshole fashion, he tips his chin at me before going back to the task.
“You just get back?” Hudson asks, lifting the saddle off Mystic and coming out of her stall to drop it on a saddle rack.
I nod, stopping next to my brother and running a hand over Mystic’s muzzle where she’s patiently waiting. She lets out a soft whinny.
“Hey, pretty girl,” I murmur to her, giving her a couple of gentle pats. “You doing okay? This asshole didn’t ride you too hard, did he?”
Smirking at me, Hudson removes the blanket from her back, laying it over his arm.
“More like the other way around,” Hank mutters from Apollo’s stall across the aisle.
“Fuck off,” Hudson volleys back, but there’s no heat in it.
Hudson’s good on a horse, but until about a year ago, he’d been living in New York. He moved there for college, and even though he always found time to ride when he brought his daughter Paige back home for visits every year, fifteen years away is a long ass time.
The slap of sandaled feet on the concrete stable floor pulls my attention back the way I came, and I look over in time to see my seven-year-old niece flying into the barn, long, dark pigtails bouncing with each hurried step.
“Uncle Hutch!” she hollers and launches herself at me before proceeding to climb me like a tree.
“Hey, little gremlin.” She’s all long legs and sticky fingers when I swing her up into my arms. Her face is sun-kissed, and she smells like dirt and green apples.
