by R.S. Grey
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, unable to meet her eyes.
“At my age, I don’t have to do anything,” she declares with her usual matter-of-fact tone. “I wanted to do that. Hell, I’ve been wanting to do that for years. Now, Jack, will you finish up and sit down so we can get back to dinner? This steak smells amazing and Alfred here is about to leap up and eat ’em if we don’t beat him to it.”
I try to get up to make new glasses of water for us, but she keeps me seated right beside her, insisting Jack can do it. He serves dinner as well, making sure to ask which of the steaks I want and heaping up a mountain of homegrown vegetables on my plate. I expect him to sit across from me, on the other side of Edith, but he takes the seat right beside me, so I’m sandwiched in between them. We don’t talk about the glass at all, even though I know they’re probably both wondering why I had the bizarre reaction that I did. Edith carries the conversation for the pair of us, but even so, I hardly listen.
By the time dinner is over, I’ve only eaten a quarter of the food on my plate and I’m ready to dart back to the shack and bury my face in my pillow. I want a few minutes of peace and quiet to process what the hell just happened and try to figure out how to stop it from ever happening again.
I finish loading the dishes in the dishwasher—a task neither of them could talk me out of—and then Jack finds me in the kitchen with some Neosporin and Band-Aids.
“Can I see your hands?” he asks, but it sounds more like a demand than a question.
I wave him off. “It’s nothing. I don’t think I need any of that.”
“I don’t believe you,” he says, his voice gruff and full of all the annoyance he harbors for me.
I hang the dish towel and offer up my best version of a reassuring smile. “I appreciate your concern.”
He ignores me, steps forward, and takes my hands in his, turning them palm up. I want to yank them away, but I don’t want to look like a petulant child. Besides, I’ve caused enough drama for one night.
He holds my hands like they’re delicate little birds, and the gentle touch cracks my chest wide open. There’s something about a man capable of such strength choosing tenderness instead. I can’t remember the last time Andrew touched me like this—I’m not sure he ever did.
“You’re right, it doesn’t look too bad,” he says, sounding relieved.
I nod and try to pretend my throat isn’t growing tighter.
I turn my head away and blink back tears.
Finally, he releases my hands, and I take the ointment and bandages from him with a quick nod of thanks. Then I’m out the back door as quick as my feet will take me.
The next day, Edith and I meet outside for our yoga session.
“You got something delivered this morning,” she says as we roll out our mats.
“Oh yeah? What was it?”
“Flowers from your ex-husband. Yellow roses.”
Wonderful. I guess he got the ranch’s address from Helen.
“You want me to trash them?” she asks.
“Yes please—or better yet, isn’t there a burn pile out back?”
“I brought the note that came with them in case you want to read it.” She’s holding out a tiny white envelope. I take it and rip it open. Now that my eyes are open to his insidiousness, the words are almost comedic. The same artfully contrived remorse that might’ve fooled me before rings utterly hollow now.
“Want me to trash that too?” she asks with a pragmatic tone.
I hand it off to her. “Please.”
I love Edith. I love her because she takes that envelope and doesn’t bring up the flowers again. I love her because she understands exactly what I need before I even work up the courage to ask. I love her because she never asks me to open up to her and never demands my secrets. Still, she offers hers. While we’re out there under the oak tree that day, Edith confides in me that before she met Jack’s grandfather, she was in a rotten relationship, one she didn’t think she’d ever make it out of.
“He had a real mean streak,” she says, staring off into the distance. “He’d get drunk and hit me every now and then, and I’d let him because it’s not always clear what love is, what love allows. I was lucky though—it didn’t last long. My family moved south and I never saw him again. Didn’t bother following me, though a part of me thought he might.”
“I’m a little worried about that,” I say, more to myself than her.
“The bastard following you?”
I don’t answer.
“Well,” she says, “you know what? It’s one thing to follow, and another thing entirely to get. We have a little saying down here in Texas—a taunt, from a battle where a small group fended off a powerful army.”
I look at her questioningly.
“It goes like this, dear: Come and take it.”
19
Jack
I know Meredith and Edith do yoga every day at 10:00 AM because productivity stalls around the ranch. On Wednesday, I head outside and find half my ranch hands congregating near the fence beside the oak tree. A few of them have the decency to act like they’re working—Max has a hammer in his hand (though not a single nail)—but most of them are just openly gawking.
“This is now the most solid and secure section of fence we have on this whole damn ranch.” My voice booms and they scatter like cockroaches. “You think we can get to work on the east pasture now?”
There are muffled apologies and half-hearted excuses, but most of them are smart enough to get to work without another word.
Chris doesn’t scatter. He comes right up to me and hands me some wildflowers wrapped in parchment paper.
“Can you deliver these to Meredith for me?”
“Why in the hell would I do that?”
He frowns like I’m a blubbering idiot. “Because you just said I need to get back to work.”
He misunderstands me.
I look down at the colorful flowers. “No, I mean why are you trying to deliver these to Meredith?”
He smiles extra wide, really proud of himself. “Oh, yeah. Well, she sent me home with those cookies last week, and I wanted to return the favor. These are from my mama’s garden.”
I yank them out of his hand and motion for him to get back to work, mumbling under my breath.
I don’t deliver the flowers to Meredith. I carry them up to my office and set them down on my desk. I stare at them so long they should catch fire, but they don’t. They stay wrapped up, a pretty gift for the pretty woman everyone on this damn ranch seems to be in love with, and I study them right up until a phone call distracts me.
I answer with a clipped greeting.
“Jack! This is Tucker—Tucker Carroway. How are you?”
“I’m fine, busy.” I push the flowers out of my line of sight. “What can I do for you, Tucker?”
“Oh I’m good too, thanks for asking.” His sarcasm annoys me, and I’m reminded why we didn’t get along in high school. “I’m calling for Meredith. She’s supposed to be my date for Dan and Leanna’s wedding this weekend and I just wanted to confirm pickup time with her.”
“So call her cell phone. I can’t have you two blocking the ranch’s main line.”
“I would, but she never gave me her number.”
I lose the fight against a smug smile.
“Sorry to hear that, man. I hope you figure it out.”
“McNight, why do I get the feeling you’re intentionally being obstinate?”
I hang up.
The phone rings, I pick it up off the base just long enough for him to get the silent message, and I hang it up again.
In the late afternoon, I stroll into the kitchen, though not because I need anything. I’m still full from lunch, and I’m not thirsty since Meredith brought me some lemonade an hour ago. It was a nice gesture, but her gentle smile successfully distracted me for the half hour after that. Now, I’m down here again. I have enough to occupy me upstairs, but I still tug open the fridge and s
tand in front of it like I’m looking for something. I even shuffle around some yogurt cups for good measure.
“Was lunch too light? I can make you something else if you want to top it off?”
Meredith is by the sink doing dishes. I’m not looking at her, but I still know exactly what she looks like today. She’s wearing cutoff denim shorts and a white t-shirt, her dark hair piled high up on her head in a messy bun. She has more freckles across the bridge of her nose today than she did last week, and I wonder if it’s because of her outdoor yoga sessions with Edith.
I can even tell she’s smiling because of the way she asked the question. I think she knows I’m in here for no good reason.
I close the fridge door at the same time she moves to take the trash out.
It’s filled to the brim, and she has a hard time lifting it out.
“Here, let me get that.”
I try to nudge her out of the way and take the bag from her.
“No, no, I can do it. It’s my job—I’m a professional.”
She groans as she lifts with all her might, but the bag only makes it halfway out of the bin before she’s forced to drop it again.
“Meredith.”
“You pay me to do this. You do realize that, right?”
I level her with a stubborn gaze, and she aims one right back at me.
“It’s my own fault for letting it get too full,” she points out.
I take her shoulders in my hands and gently shift her a foot to the right so I can empty the trash.
“Fine,” she hollers after me as I head out back. “I guess this counts as my first break.”
I pull the lid open on the outdoor trashcan, and just as I’m about to toss the bag on top of the pile, something catches my attention: a bouquet of expensive-looking flowers scattered as if they were dumped straight out of the vase and an envelope ripped down the middle sitting on top. I drop the trash bag on the ground and grab the two halves of the note.
It’s a private message, one definitely not meant for my eyes, but I read it anyway.
Meredith, my love, please come home. I can’t think of any way to convince you of how sorry I am. I’ve racked my brain for ways to convince you you’re making a mistake, and I know these flowers and this note won’t be enough. You’re the love of my life, my wife, my everything. Please don’t walk away now and throw away the vows we made to each other five years ago. I knew the moment I saw you that you were mine.
Come home. Please.
I love you,
Andrew
They’re the words of a heartbroken man, words that cut through my chest as painfully as if I was the one who wrote them. I knew Meredith left her husband when she came to Texas. I knew she had a whole life back in California, but reading this puts it all in perspective. She’s still married to a man who loves her and expects her back. She didn’t leave a loveless marriage; she left a heartbroken husband who’s still foolishly pining for her. I bet he went half insane when he woke up and found her gone that day three weeks ago. No warning, no discussion—she just vanished and left him to pick up the pieces. I wonder how many times a day he calls her. I wonder what her reasons were for leaving him. I wonder if what Helen said was true, that her husband doted on her and gave her the world, that she is spoiled and bored and left to teach him a lesson.
Honestly, though, I’m not sure her reasons matter. Regardless of why she left, I’m still a fool. I’ve been letting my guard down around her, allowing her into my life inch by inch. I’m acutely aware of her when she walks into a room, and I try to catch every one of her smiles as if they’re meant just for me. I’m smitten, and I have been for longer than I care to admit.
Worse, I’m not the only person under her spell. I’m standing in line clutching a number. The ranch hands, Tucker, her husband—everyone wants Meredith, and I’d bet Meredith wants no one. She’s a heartbreaker, a self-centered woman who wants nothing more than to be wanted.
I think of how she cried when she broke that glass at dinner the other night, how she looked so delicate and fragile in that moment that my heart softened for her.
Was it all a crock of shit? All for show?
I pick the trash bag up off the ground and toss it inside.
If so, it’s about time Meredith took her act back to where it belongs.
20
Meredith
I can’t believe how quickly I’ve settled in here. It’s been nearly three weeks since I first arrived, and I’m already building a life for myself. I commute places in a pickup truck. I use the word y’all un-ironically. Just yesterday, I accidentally drank water with my lunch instead of sweet tea and I gagged.
I like it in Cedar Creek way more than I thought I would. The work is hard, and I don’t exactly love what I’m doing, but it does come with perks: I love cooking lunch for Edith and Jack, and they actually seem to be enjoying my healthier dishes. Jack even requested my salmon this week. I really enjoy doing yoga with Edith, and yesterday, she told me she was pretty close to touching her foot to her face.
“I haven’t been able to do that in years!”
However, my absolute favorite perk is Jack. Talking to him, annoying him, staring at him when he’s not paying attention—there’s really no end to my obsession at this point. He and I aren’t friends exactly, but I still enjoy our exchanges. I’m aware of where he is in the house at all times, as if he’s wearing a tracking device. Still, I try not to disturb him too much. I mean, bringing him lemonade or a snack isn’t necessarily disturbing him, and it affords me a quick glimpse of him working, a little snapshot to hold me over while I’m in laundry hell.
Yesterday morning, he was out helping the guys clear a section of the garden. I have no clue what they were doing—tilling? Harvesting? I really don’t care, and it doesn’t matter because whatever it was, it meant Jack was out there in plain view wearing jeans, a dark blue work shirt, and his baseball hat. I stood at the kitchen window, repeatedly drying a single plate as I watched him get his hands dirty.
I was biting my bottom lip.
Clutching the towel.
And then he lifted the bottom of his work shirt to wipe at some sweat on his face and Edith walked in on me, bent over the sink, eyes pinched closed as I recited what I knew of the Lord’s Prayer, which was pretty much just the first few lines. I lose track after the part about bread.
“Are you having a heart attack or something?”
“Menstrual cramps,” I lied.
“Go lie down and rest. I’ll finish drying those.”
Here’s a little secret: I let her dry the last of those dishes so I could go take a break in the shack, and I did lie down, but I didn’t rest.
I didn’t rest THREE TIMES.
I know. It’s probably a sin to not rest so soon after saying the Lord’s Prayer, but sometimes you just have to not rest right when the mood takes you.
I should feel guilty about fantasizing about my boss, but a part of me is so relieved that I’m even interested in fantasizing about anyone at this point. Andrew and I hadn’t slept together for months near the end, and before that, sex wasn’t something I took pleasure in. He was like a soul-sucking, libido-killing leech.
Now…nowwww that’s all I’m interested in.
It’s like I have an unquenchable thirst and no matter how many times I don’t rest, it never seems to sate me. I think I’ve got it under control and then Jack will say something in his gruff tone that’s meant to get under my skin, but really it just feels like a whole lot of foreplay at this point. Getting under his skin has somehow gotten tied up in my horniness neurons, so now, it’s not just fun working him up…it’s fun. I know—bad, bad Meredith. Whatever. I have problems, and I have every intention of sorting them out, just as soon as I see where this obsession with Jack could lead.
It’s Thursday, and I haven’t seen him all day. He left the ranch earlier and didn’t return until after lunch. I was down in the living room, straightening up when he walked in the front door
and breezed right past me. No smile, no wave, not even a grumpy comment.
Huh.
Later, I knock on his door and ask him if I can get him anything, perhaps a snack or something to drink. He shouts back that he’s on the phone, and he sounds pissed that I’m interrupting him. I feel bad, not to mention slightly embarrassed that he sounded so put-off. Like I said, we aren’t friends, but it feels like we’ve been heading in that direction. Okay, maybe not friends in the traditional sense, but we’ve at least been dialing down the hatred to a sustainable level.
Him dismissing me is a tiny step in the wrong direction, but I shrug it off. Maybe he’s had a hard day. Maybe he’s got a burr in his saddle. (See? I really do belong in the country.)
I wait for Jack to make an appearance after his phone call ends, but he doesn’t. That burr must be wedged deep.
In the early evening, I brew a pot of decaf coffee and Edith joins me at the table with some shortbread cookies. We’re ruining our appetites for dinner, but neither one of us mothers the other. We talk about how excited we are for the wedding on Saturday and what sort of snacks we should make for yoga on Sunday afternoon. After I’ve got her really talking, I work up the courage to ask her if she’s noticed anything weird with Jack.
“Oh, and no big deal at all…just while I have you here…I was wondering if maybe, by chance…never mind—oh, do you want more coffee? Here, let me get it for you.”
She swats my hand away when I try to take her mug.
“Spit it out, woman!”
“Have you noticed anything weird about Jack lately?”
“I get less information out of him than a month-old lemon. All I know is he ate dinner out last night and he’s been gone all day.” She shifts her gaze up to me. “Is he giving you trouble again? I can knock some more sense into him—”