Page 108 of Not Another Yesterday
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Fuck yeah, I worry. And for good fucking reason. Miranda and Cat? Together? After everything?
I try Miranda’s phone twice more, then muster up the courage and dial Cat’s number. Gotta admit, I listen to her entire voicemail greeting before hanging up, soaking in her voice like drops off water after days in the desert. I’m fucking pathetic.
I go about my afternoon work dutifully. I show Shane and Tori the literal and figurative ropes, though Tori mostly gets distracted by the calves and foals while Shane helps me fence off a section of pasture.
It’s past four. Tori went down for a nap—she’s clearly not used to running on minimal sleep like Shane and me—while my best friend is next to me, helping me clean the tack. I’ve always loved the smell of conditioned leather.
“The contractor said construction should only take a week,” Shane says about his plan to reconstruct the small stage at the back of Murphy’s. It’s been his latest passion project.
“When are they coming in to do that, though? I doubt you want a construction crew wrecking the place while you’re serving food.”
He nods. “They’re coming at night. After we close, they’ll work for a few hours, then shut it all down before we open again. We’ll wall off that back section temporarily.”
“How much will that cut capacity?” I run the waxy cloth over the stirrups, wiping away excess conditioner.
“Four booths and two tables, so thirty-six fewer seats.”
“Not bad.” I nod. “They starting Monday? Try to wrap it by Friday?” Weekends at Murphy’s are always packed. I know Shane doesn’t want to touch that cash flow.
“That’s the plan.”
The distant rumble of an engine cuts through the barn, and Shane’s voice fades when I catch a flash of cherry red out the open doors.
Cat and Miranda are back.
I hoist my saddle back on the rack, then turn to Shane, my damn heart thundering in my chest like I’m about to face off with that wildcat again. Different kind of Cat this time.
He takes one look at me and just nods, smiling like he already knows what I’m about to do. “You gonna stand there, or fix what’s broken?”
I blink. “Did you just quote… me?”
He grins, shrugs, and goes back to polishing.
I walk out of the barn slowly, listening. There’s the slam of a truck door. Then another. Footsteps in the dirt—light, but not quiet. I can tell who’s who. Heavy boots clomping? Miranda. The soft pad of well-worn chucks? Cat.
I step into the sunlight and stop short when I see them, standing by the tailgate of Miranda’s truck maybe twenty feet off. I need to gauge what I’m about to walk into, assess the threat level like I’ve done all my life. It’s one of the many habits I haven’t been able to break in the year and a half sincethe end.
But honestly? I’m not sure anything could’ve prepared me for this. There’s Cat, standing by the open tailgate next to Miranda, and… they’re both… smiling? No, they’regigglingwhile each pulls a box laden with flowers off the truck bed.
I expected to walk into storm and was met with sunshine.
“I guess I’d appreciate a plant over a flower,” Cat says, light and airy. “Flowers have a certain expiration date because they’ve been separated from their roots. It’s kind of a horrible gift, if you think about it.”
Miranda nods. “Yep. Flowers die. What a terrible idea. ‘Hey, here’s something pretty you can watch wither away,’” she says, mimicking a dude’s voice.
She sets her box down and pauses, hands on her hips. “You know what? I’ve never actually gotten flowers.”
“Me neither.”
Inwardly, I cringe. Cat’s right—at least when it comes to us. I’ve never gotten her flowers. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing, now that I know how she feels about them… but still. Why didn’t I ever ask? Probably because I assumed all girls like flowers. And yet, I never even gave her that. And now, maybe I never will.
For a moment, panic floods my chest. What does Cat actually like? Have I ever really taken the time to find out? Or have I just been so wrapped up in my own shit that I’ve spent our whole relationship stringing her along? Have I ever actually shown her how much she means to me? That I’d rather take the hit myself than let her hurt, especially if I’m the one who caused it?
I close my eyes, their voices drifting over on a breeze, and I think.
She loves sunsets. Especially at Shane’s mom’s beach house, when the sky turns a burnt orange and the ocean looks like it’s on fire. She loves all things tiny—puppies, kittens, baby penguins… raccoons in clothes, for some reason. Her laugh is the best thing I’ve ever heard, especially when she really loses it, when she’s all breathless and squeaking. It’s so fucking cute that I can’t help but laugh right along with her even when the thing she’s laughing about isn’t actually that funny.
