She’s Gone Country

by Jane Porter; Jane Porter

  It’s such a slippery slope, juggling his need for independence with his need for support and stability.

  All weekend Bo’s been a ghost in the house, disappearing into his room, keeping lights off, speaking to no one unless he’s communicating using his phone.

  A month ago, I rarely saw him use his phone, but now it’s a permanent fixture in his hand.

  This morning, Mama called for her weekly Sunday afternoon chat. Her first question, of course, was about my spiritual life, and her next was about the boys. Apparently we’re all still in danger of going to hell, but at least she said it nicely. I appreciate that, as I’ve kind of got a lot on my plate and burning in flames isn’t a cheery thought.

  Tonight we’re having our Sunday dinner at Brick and Char’s. Charlotte already has the house decorated, and Christmas carols play on the stereo in the background as we eat in the dining room.

  Cooper talks a mile a minute throughout the meal, telling Brick everything he’s learning at Dane’s and how he’s hoping to enter his first rodeo this spring. But Bo doesn’t participate in the conversation at all. Instead he pushes his food around his plate, sighs loudly, and yawns repeatedly, as if he’s never been so bored in all his life.

  I’d kick Bo under the table if I could reach his foot. But I can’t, so I content myself with glaring at him periodically instead. Where is my good kid? What’s happened to Bo?

  On the way out, I apologize to Brick and Char as Bo’s already in the truck waiting for me. I’m mortified by his behavior.

  “It’s the teen years,” Char tells me, patting my back. “We’ve all been there.”

  Maybe, I think, but it doesn’t make me feel better.

  Home, I send the boys to bed. Then, too keyed up to sleep, I tidy the house and start another load of laundry. I watch TV as I move the laundry forward, staying up until the last load is done. It’s eleven-thirty when I quietly open Bo’s door to leave his clean clothes on the chair at his desk and discover Bo’s not asleep, but in bed, texting in the dark.

  I turn on the light. “What are you doing?”

  “I just had to answer this person.”

  “It’s past eleven. You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

  “I will in a second.”

  “Put it away, Bo.”

  “Let me just finish.”

  “Who are you texting at this time of night?”

  “A friend.”

  “Your friend shouldn’t be up this late, either. It’s a school night. I want you off now.”

  “Can I just finish the message? I’ll put the phone away then, I promise.”

  “Fine. But then I want the phone.”

  “What?”

  “I want the phone. I’m taking it away for the next forty-eight hours—”

  “Mom!”

  “Fight with me and it’s going to be a week.”

  “Fine.” He rolls out of bed and practically slams the phone into my hand. “Happy?”

  “Yes. Good night.”

  I think we have the phone situation resolved, but just two days later when I’m about to return the phone, I get a call from Paul Peterson. Bo is failing math and social studies. He’s barely passing English and science.

  After dropping Cooper at Dane’s, I tell Bo I’m keeping the phone and he’s off the computer until his grades improve. Bo goes ballistic.

  He shouts at me that I’m ruining his life. Tells me he’s going to run away. Keeps the drama going the entire twenty-minute drive home.

  I give up trying to talk to him and just let him rant. He’s not going to win. Not this time.

  Back at the house, he goes to his room and slams the door shut. I let him stay there, too, because it’s easier having him sulking in bed than throwing a fit in the living room.

  But when it’s six and time to head to basketball practice, Bo refuses to go.

  Brick’s been driving Bo to and from practice, and he hears Bo’s answer. As he starts for Bo’s room, I hold up a hand to stop him. “Let me handle this,” I tell him.

  “He’s got to go, Shey.”

  “He’s going to go, Brick. Relax.”

  But I’m not relaxed. My gut is in knots. I have a feeling we’re about to have another scene, and Lord knows these scenes get old.

  I walk to Bo’s room and quietly open the door. The lights are off and the room is dark, but I can make out the shape of his legs and shoulders beneath the covers. “Bo, sugar, it’s already six. If you’re going to make basketball practice on time, you need to leave.”

  “I already told you, I don’t want to go,” he says, his voice muffled by the covers.

  “Bo…”

  “I’m tired, Mom. I just want to sleep.”

  “You can sleep tonight. You’ve got to get up—”

  “No. Let me miss practice tonight. Just tonight.”

  “You missed practice once last week. Your coach won’t play you if you don’t make your practices.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Yes, you do.” I flip on the lights, move toward the bed. “Let’s get up. Get going.”

  “I can’t,” he groans.

  “Why not?” I try to pull the covers back, but he’s got a tight grip on them.

  “I just can’t. Now please, leave me alone.”

  “You heard your mom, Bo. Time to get up.” Brick’s not having Bo’s attitude, and he’s in the doorway to back me up whether I like it or not. “Your team’s counting on you, son.”

  Bo lowers the covers. “They’re not counting on me. Last game Coach hardly played me.”

  “You’ll be played even less if you miss another practice,” Brick retorts.

  “I don’t care,” Bo answers, turning his face away. “I quit.”

  “You’re not quitting. You’re going to practice and I’m driving you there now.”

  I see tears tremble on Bo’s lashes, and I grab Brick’s arm and drag him out of the bedroom into the hall.

  “I thought you were going to let me handle this,” I hiss to my brother.

  “You’re not handling it—”

  “I am handling it. My way.”

  “Your way seems to be letting him have his way.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Nice mouth, Shey.”

  I reach behind me, grab Bo’s doorknob, and close his door. “Don’t fight with me. I can’t fight both of you at the same time.”

  “I don’t want to fight with you, but you’re making a mistake here. You’re babying Bo, and it won’t help him—”

  “I’m not!”

  Brick’s a calm man, but he’s pretty worked up now. “Your little boy is fourteen years old, six feet tall, and quickly learning that he doesn’t have to stand on his own two feet because Mama will do the work for him.”

  “That’s not what’s happening. I’m worried about him. He’s struggling again, and it’s getting worse. This isn’t new. You know he’s suffered from depression.”

  “Then help him. But don’t let him quit, and don’t let him fall apart. This is a small town. Word travels fast.”

  “I’m doing my best.”

  “You don’t want him to become Cody.”

  Cody. My heart falters. Interesting that Brick made the comparison. I do it all the time.

  The bedroom door opens abruptly and Bo stands there in his long red-and-black basketball shorts and sweatshirt. His eyes are pink, but his jaw is set. “Let’s go.”

  I reach for him. “Bo—”

  He pulls away and walks toward the back door. “I’ll be in the truck.”

  Brick follows without a word to me, and I hear the back door bang a second time. They’re gone.

  While Brick is driving Bo to practice, Dane drops Cooper off from training. It’s dark now by six, and I walk outside to meet Dane’s truck.

  Cooper’s cold and sore and starving, and he runs inside to shower and eat dinner. “How’s he doing?” I ask Dane, shivering at the chilly temperature.

  “He’s doing great,
but you’re freezing,” he answers. “Go inside.”

  I should have grabbed a coat on my way out, but now that I’m talking to him, I’m not going anywhere. I’ve missed him way too much. “How’s your hip doing?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “But the cold snap—”

  “I’m not an old lady. You don’t have to fuss over me.”

  I laugh, picturing him as the Wolf in “Little Red Riding Hood,” all dressed up in Grandmother’s nightclothes. “You’re nothing like an old lady,” I say, still grinning. “Do you have somewhere you have to be? Want to come in for a bit? I’ve got plenty of dinner. It’s just sloppy Joes, but it’s warm and it’ll fill you up.”

  “Sloppy Joes?”

  “Mmmm, gourmet, I know.”

  “I happen to love sloppy Joes.”

  “Then park and come in. It’s been a rough few days and I’d love some company.”

  “Sold.”

  He parks, and I lead him into the house through the back porch.

  “How’s it holding up?” he asks, stopping to examine the door he installed Thanksgiving weekend.

  “Great.” I head for the stove to adjust the heat beneath the bubbling meat mixture, then turn on the broiler to toast the buns. “So do you like cheese on your sloppy Joes, or just meat and buns?”

  “Either way. Just glad for some home-cooked food.”

  I shoot him a quick glance and see that he’s taken a seat at the kitchen table, almost in the same spot he used to sit as a teenager. “You should come in and have dinner with us the nights you drive Coop home. There’s no reason not to—” I break off, remembering Lulu. “Ah, the girlfriend. Never mind.”

  He smiles at me, and it’s such a sexy smile that it makes my toes curl. “Lulu moved out.”

  “Her remodel’s done?”

  “No. She met someone new. A pitcher with the Rangers.”

  I slide the tray of buttered buns beneath the broiler. “Are you upset?”

  “No. I actually introduced them. Thought he was more her speed, and it seemed nicer than dumping her.”

  “What’s her speed?” I ask, keeping a close eye on the browning buns.

  “Young, handsome, rich.”

  “But that’s you.”

  His eyes crease with humor. “No, I’m handsome and rich. But not young anymore.”

  I grin, amused by the idea that Lulu would find some smooth-faced kid sexier than this rugged, beautiful man. “Not that it’s any consolation, but I’d rather have old you than some young ace.”

  He snorts with laughter. “Thank you, Shey. That’s very nice of you.”

  A freshly showered Cooper appears for dinner. After pulling the tray from the oven, I dish up the food so we can eat.

  Dinner’s fun with Dane there. Cooper and Dane have developed an easy, comfortable relationship, and they talk about everything—proposed changes in the PBR, school, the upcoming holidays. Dane gets Coop roaring when he asks Cooper if he’ll be visiting Santa at the Weatherford Mall this year.

  “I think I’m taller than Santa,” Cooper answers. “Can you see me on his lap? My legs up to my chin. Hey, Santa, can you bring me a pony for Christmas, and a new saddle, too?”

  I smile indulgently. “You want a pony for Christmas, Coop?”

  Cooper rolls his eyes. “I was being funny, Mom.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “A chance to ride a real bull.”

  I glance at Dane, whose expression is impassive, and back to Coop, who clearly isn’t expecting a positive response. “This one’s out of my hands, Coop.”

  “It doesn’t have to be. You have custody—”

  “Temporary custody. There are a lot of things still to be decided.”

  “Like what?”

  I don’t want to do this with Dane here, but at the same time I don’t want to act as though I have anything to hide. “Like if you can all stay here with me, or if we’d have to go back to New York.”

  Cooper flushes. “Why would we have to go back to New York? We live here now—”

  “Well, that’s still to be decided.”

  His eyes blaze furiously. “What do you mean? We moved here. I like it here. I’m not going back to New York. Ever.”

  I shift self-consciously. “It’s not that easy, baby. I can’t just move you away from your dad without a formal custody agreement, and right now we don’t have one in place. That’s something we’re working on, and then we have to get a judge to sign off on it. But hopefully it’ll happen and we’ll stay and—”

  Cooper jumps to his feet and walks out.

  He’s never walked away from me before. I sit back in my chair and weigh whether I should go after him or just let him be for now.

  After a moment, I turn to look at Dane. “Sorry.”

  “He just needs some time to cool off.”

  I nod, but my insides churn. “He really does like it here,” I say after a moment. “He’s happy here.”

  “Is there going to be a custody battle?”

  I take a deep breath. “Hope not. And this isn’t about keeping the boys from John. John’s a great dad, a very hands-on father. But I can’t be in New York. I can’t live there now. I need to be here.”

  “But he’s not happy with the kids here, is he?”

  I get up from the table, stack the dishes, and carry them to the sink. “No. He misses them.”

  “And you wouldn’t let him have custody?”

  My head jerks up. “God, no. I love them. I need them. I honestly couldn’t survive without them.” And then, realizing how that sounds, especially in light of Dane’s loss, I add, “I mean, I guess I could if I had to, but I wouldn’t want to. I love being their mom.”

  “It’s obvious.”

  Turning on the hot water, I start filling the kitchen sink, feeling torn. I’m here with Dane, but I’m also worried about Coop. And yet this schism is part of motherhood. Once the first baby arrives, your attention is forever split. Husband and child. Work and family. “I’m sorry. I know I talk about them too much. The little buggers have a way of taking over—”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, I need to learn to juggle better.”

  “You’re juggling fine. I’d be worried if the kids didn’t come first. And I like it that you’re devoted to the boys. I find it sexy.”

  I nearly drop the bottle of dishwashing soap into the sink. “Sexy?” I croak.

  “You’ve always been pretty, Shey, and I knew you were strong. But I don’t think I realized just how beautiful you were until I saw you with your boys. When you’re around your kids, you have this glow, this vitality, and it’s a huge turn-on.”

  Did he just say “sexy” and “turn-on” in the space of thirty seconds?

  “I wish Shellie Ann had been more like you,” he adds flatly. “She always seemed annoyed by the demands of motherhood. Yes, Matthew needed a lot of care, but he was our son. I would have done anything for him, and yet I used to think that all Shellie Ann wanted was to get away from him.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t mean it—”

  “He had problems. He wasn’t perfect. She hated it, you know. She couldn’t get over the fact that he wasn’t a pretty baby. She couldn’t enter him in pageants and cute baby photo contests.” Bitterness makes every word sharp. “I had no idea how shallow she was until it was too late. But what do you do? You make the best of it, right?”

  “Right.”

  He stares past me, across the kitchen and out the window to the dark night. “I’m still angry with her. It’s been years, but I can’t forget the things she said, the things she did. Matthew deserved better.”

  I say nothing, and he turns to look at me, features hard, expression intense. “Do you know what Shellie Ann told Charlotte? She said she wished she’d aborted Matthew when she had the chance.” His voice drops, deepens, and he grinds his jaw as he struggles to regain control. “The day she told Charlotte that, it was Mattie’s second birthday. His second birth
day. Lord.” He draws a quick, shallow breath. “I would have died for that boy, and my wife, my wife, wished she’d killed him.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t mean it. She was probably having a bad day. That happens when you’re a mom. You say things you don’t mean. You lose your temper.”

  He fixes his fierce gaze on me. “Have you ever said you wished your child was dead?”

  “No, but exhaustion and depression can make women say things they really don’t mean.”

  “Charlotte said the same thing. Shellie Ann was just depressed. She needed more time for herself. So I hired a nanny and Charlotte came over every night after work and my mother was here weekends. But it didn’t help. Shellie Ann wouldn’t be—couldn’t be—happy, and we were this crazy miserable dysfunctional family.”

  “It had to hurt. You’ve always been such a family man.”

  He runs a hand across his face. “I wanted it to work. But, God, we weren’t compatible. She loved the social scene and nightlife while I just wanted to hole up at home and chill out. Shellie Ann used to complain that I deliberately trapped her on the ranch. But I wasn’t trying to trap her. I like living there. I enjoy the solitude. It’s where I’m happy.”

  “That’s why you built that big stone mansion.”

  “I didn’t understand it was the ranch she hated. I thought it was the old farmhouse.” Abruptly he rises, his forehead furrowed. “Let’s not talk about this anymore. It’s just getting me upset, and it all happened so long ago.”

  “Of course. Can I offer you coffee, dessert?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I should go.” But he says it reluctantly. “I have some calls I need to make tonight.”

  “I can make you a cup of decaf for the road.”

  Dane’s expression suddenly eases, and he gives me a crooked smile. “You’re good company, Shey Callen.”

  “Shey Darcy.”

  “You’ll never be Darcy to me,” he says, crossing the kitchen to join me at the sink. “You’re a Callen. My favorite Callen.”

  I can feel his warmth and smell that clean scent he wears, and it makes my insides turn to mush. “In that case, I don’t suppose you’d want to do something this weekend?”