“I’ve always been a firm believer that everything happens for a reason, you know? Good times are wonderful, yes, but we wouldn’t be able to appreciate them for how good they are if we didn’t have bad times to compare them to. Obviously, this is a bad time. Nobody wants to lose loved ones, and I’m going to miss my little girl more than words can say; the thing is, we can’t just let ourselves be sad all the time. If there’s one person that I know would want us to have a New Orleans style funeral for her, it would be Lisa.”
I had no idea what that was and was genuinely interested. “What’s that?” I couldn’t help but ask, though, for Laci’s sake, I probably shouldn’t have.
“What, a New Orleans style funeral? Ain’t you ever hear of it? They play a slow march on the way to the burial site and, after the burial’s done, they play upbeat jazz to celebrate their life rather than mourn their death. I think it’s a downright genius concept. More people ought to do it. I tell you what, if I could’ve come up north for the funeral, I’d have made sure we did something like it.”
Thinking of death in terms like that would’ve helped make things easier for me, but apparently, it was the opposite for Laci. She slid her chair out with a screech, excused herself politely, and thumped up the stairs. I heard a door latch, and I didn’t see hide nor tail of her again that night. I just couldn’t comprehend that city girl. It seemed like she was running away from the positive light her grandma shined on the situation. Did she just want to be sad? Don’t get me wrong, it can’t be easy to suddenly be an orphan (not that I’d know), but you can’t run away from it, either.
When I expressed that to my mom on the way home that night, she used my full name again.
“Noah Alexander Tucker! How dare you say a thing like that! Everyone’s allowed to grieve in their own way, and her parents haven’t even been gone a week yet. She can take all the time she needs to feel better, and if that involves wallowing in her sadness for a while, then she should be allowed to do that without pig-nosed men getting on her case about it. I’m surprised at you.”
“You’re taking it the wrong way, Mama. I never said that she can’t feel sad or that she had to get over it right away. What I’m saying is, it just seems like she’s purposely trying to block out the positivity that her grandma’s trying to inject into the situation. I get it, everyone’s process to getting over something like that is different, and that’s fine, but I just think she should want to get better.”
“Do you really think she doesn’t want to get better, son? Think of it this way: when you’ve had a bad day, say you got bucked before your eight seconds at Nationals, do you want someone around saying, ‘It’s okay, it happened for a reason,’ or do you want someone who says, ‘That sucks, tell me about what happened?’ Probably the second one, I’d bet.”
I nodded, and she kept talking.
“So, this whole situation is like one big awful day for her. She got bucked back to back and her grandma’s telling her, ‘It’s okay, it happened for a reason,’ rather than what she wants to hear. She just needs to mourn. She needs someone to just let her feel how she feels, Noah.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to get involved, anyway. I wasn’t kidding when I said that city girls act like they’re better than cowboys. I’ve encountered a bunch of girls who come across just like her in the beginning, and every single one of them has ended up being too prissy to get down and dirty from time to time. Then they stick their noses up in the air when it comes to doing anything that matters outside of their makeup. I’m sorry she lost her parents, but that doesn’t mean she has to look down her nose at me.”
Mama shook her head. “You have a lot to learn about women, sweetheart.”
Maybe I did, but I had no intentions of starting with Princess Laci.
Chapter Seven
Laci
I have to admit, I was a little surprised. I thought it was generally common knowledge that digging into one’s personal life is usually considered a little too heavy for dinner table conversation—especially when you’ve just met that person on account of the untimely deaths of both of her parents. Make no mistake, Hank and Karen Tucker seem like very sweet people. I knew they meant well, but forgive me for not wanting to talk about how I was feeling. I came to the ranch to take my mind off of things, not play twenty questions about my emotions over pork chops and potato casserole.
I laid there on the bed Aunt Sara had made so nicely for me and stared at the ceiling, trying to clear my head. Jackson—God bless that boy—tried and tried to get me to come out and go riding with him. He even bribed me with chocolate. When it came down to it, though, I just couldn’t get myself to go. Poor boy didn’t know any better; he was too young when he lost his dad to remember what the heartache was like. After countless attempts, he eventually slid a candy bar under my door anyway and said he’d get someone else to take him on a ride. When I finally pushed all of the negative thoughts swimming through my head aside, my mind drifted to Emily and Mark. I wonder what they’re doing right now.
I pictured Emily sitting on her bed painting her nails, holding the nail polish bottle between her feet while watching one of her favorite movies and eating an entire bag of cheese puffs. I snorted rather indelicately when my little mental scenario showed Emily picking up a cheese puff while engrossed in a kissing scene, then dragging it across her freshly-painted nail, thinking it was the nail polish brush. A curse would slip from her lips as she lamented the loss of a cheese puff and the need to repaint a nail.
Then, I started thinking about Mark. Mr. Nice Guy. The quintessential boy-next-door.
He was probably doing something super sweet, like helping an old lady cross a street. Then, for some ridiculous reason, my brain went off the rails and an image of him writing “Mrs. Laci Hannon” on a piece of notebook paper came to mind. Good God, you need to snap out of it. We aren’t in grade school. My fingers lightly traced the pendant around my neck and I settled my thoughts back to something more realistic.
And, I went back to imagining Mark help that old lady cross the street, after which he’d probably walk to the nearest coffee shop so he could sit and pretend to write poetry while he sipped on an Americano and people watch, studying them for character ideas like we used to do. That’s one thing I’ll always appreciate about Mark—he has great taste in coffee.
Speaking of coffee, I was definitely craving some. I emerged from my room like a rat looking for cheese and scampered down the stairs. I poked my head into the living room, expecting to see Jackson there with Aunt Sara and Grandma, but he wasn’t.
“Hey, Lace,” Aunt Sara said, looking up from her crossword puzzle as the news droned on in front of her. Grandma snored lightly from her chair. “What’s up?”
“Where’s Jack?” I asked. “He’s been begging me to come out all day, and now that I finally do, he disappears. Go figure.”
“He said he was going over to see if Noah would take him for a ride.” I suddenly felt like a total jerk. My cousin actually resorted to turning to the rude, wannabe cowboy from next door because I couldn’t get myself out to the stables.
“Oh, okay. Hey, I’m really feeling like a cup of coffee. Mind showing me where the stuff is?”
“You’re a coffee drinker now?” she asked in surprise. “How did I not know that?” Judging by the look on her face as she said it, you’d have thought I just told her Zac Efron wanted to take me on a hot night on the town.
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “I’ve been drinking coffee since I was, I dunno, sixteen, I think.” Grandma let out a quick, loud snore. “Looks like Gram could use a cup, too,” I chuckled with a look across the room.
Aunt Sara waved her hand dismissively as she stood from her seat on the couch. “Eh, she’ll come to in about an hour, then stagger to bed like a zombie. Well, what are we waiting for? I can’t wait to show you my new espresso machine!”
Hmm, I didn’t know she was such a coffee fanatic.
She led the way to the kitchen, then opened a se
t of double doors on an antique-looking cabinet and revealed a huge double espresso machine. She gingerly pulled it forward a bit like it was a baby, then squatted down and opened another set of doors, pulling out a wooden box from inside. After she had put it on the counter beside the machine, she clicked her tongue and hovered her index finger over at least five different coffee options, trying to decide which one to use. “What do you think?” she asked, snapping her head toward me. “French vanilla, robust roast, hazelnut, half-caf, breakfast blend, or blueberry?”
“Blueberry? That sounds horrifying.”
“Bite your tongue, Laci Daniels!” she gasped. “That just so happens to be my favorite!”
I pride myself on being the kind of girl who will try almost anything at least once, so I figured what the hell? “You’re favorite, huh? Hmph. Alright, I guess I can try it. For you,” I gushed.
“You won’t regret it. Now,” she crossed to the fridge, “whole milk, half and half, or cream? And, to make it as sweet as you, do you want agave nectar or sugar?”
“Geez, I don’t know. Surprise me.”
“Ahhh! One Sara Special, coming right up!”
She pulled everything out and went to work—she ground the beans, tamped the resulting grounds into the little espresso filter, and clicked it into place. Next, she pressed a few buttons and placed a shot glass sized cup underneath the spout. She put equal parts of milk and half and half in a metal tin she pulled out of the freezer then turned on the frother to steam it. I got lost in the rest of her process and started a conversation.
“So, how are you feeling?” A little part of me hated myself for asking that question the moment it spilled from my lips—she probably wasn’t feeling much better than me—but it was much different to get that kind of question from a relative going through the same situation as you than it was to get it from a bunch of strangers around a dinner table.
“Oh, don’t worry about me, sweetie,” she said. “How are you?” It’s just like her to put the focus on anyone but herself.
“I do worry about you, ya know. I’m going to tell you what Em told me—you don’t have to keep it together for my sake.”
She smiled sadly. “I know, Lace, but really, I’m okay. I’ve been trying to think about it like your grandmother said last night. Of course, I miss my sister and brother-in-law, but they lived good lives and they were loved. I’m trying to celebrate all the love they brought into the world…like you, for example. How are you holding up?”
I shrugged. “Been better, been worse. I think I hit rock bottom in the car with Em a few days ago, so I’m starting my uphill battle. I have to admit, it wasn’t the greatest feeling to have it brought up at dinner last night, though.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” Sara said as she put a mug in front of me that had a heart in the foam and was dusted with cinnamon. “Hank and Karen apologized profusely after you went upstairs, and again today when I talked to them. They really had the best of intentions.”
I nodded. “Oh, I don’t doubt that,” I said as I took a sip of the blueberry concoction. “Damn, that’s good. I would never have thought cinnamon went with blueberry. Or that blueberry went with coffee, for that matter.”
“Oh ye of little faith,” she chuckled. “So what was all that between you and Noah, anyway? It’s like you’ve had it out for each other from the get-go. I think he’s pretty cute; I’m surprised you don’t think so.”
“Well, he isn’t exactly bad-looking,” I said. “But he’s got a rotten attitude. The first thing he did was look me up and down like I was a piece of meat, then comment that I shouldn’t wear what I had on to a ranch.”
“In his defense, you weren’t wearing the best of shoes to handle this kind of terrain,” she pointed out, starting her elaborate espresso process again for a cup of her own.
“It’s not just about the shoes, Aunt Sara. It’s about the fact that the first thing out of his mouth was criticism. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a constructive critique, but he talked to me like I’m completely dense and had no idea where I was going.”
“I understand that, honey, but he’s not used to filtering himself. You have to take everything he says with a grain of salt. Being a twenty-two-year-old in the middle of the PBR circuit, trying to prove himself worthy to be there, he’s gotta act all high and mighty if he’s got any hope of earning respect.”
“I’m kinda in his shoes, too,” I pointed out. “I’m an eighteen-year-old who’s about to jump head first into an industry dominated by people with quadruple the experience as me and some with the fame to go along with it, but you don’t see me treating everyone like they crapped in my Cheerios.”
Aunt Sara laughed. “Now, that’s a new one. How about you think of it this way—people don’t normally think of actors as being rough and tough, down and dirty, manly-men. Bull riders, on the other hand…”
“I get it, they have to come off as the Alpha male. What I don’t get is why he has to keep it up at home when he’s away from everyone who’d judge him for being a real human being.”
“Hank, his dad, used to be a bull rider, you know. Maybe he feels like he’s got to put on the show for him. Few things can wound an ego more than a dad who isn’t proud of you.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” I confessed. “Maybe I should apologize. I’m glad I could always be myself around Daddy…” I paused, feeling the weight of how much I missed him already. “And, he was always proud of me. I never had to wonder if he was. He made sure I knew.” I felt my chest tighten, that crippling lump rising up in the back of my throat as I choked back the tears. In an effort to try to keep myself from crying, I took a deep sip of my weirdly delicious blueberry cappuccino and ended up burning my tongue. Guess I forgot how long espresso stays scalding hot. I hung my tongue out and panted a little bit, asking in a slurred voice where the ice was.
“In the freezer, blondie,” she told me.
Right, I knew that.
I ran to the freezer and pulled out an ice cube, then popped it into my mouth. “Das bettur,” I murmured around the chunk of ice before crunching it into tiny pieces and swallowing it.
“You know what’ll make you feel even better?” Sara added.
“What’s that?”
“A nice, hot shower. Always works for me when I’m down.”
“You know, I think that sounds awesome,” I told her gratefully. I stood up and picked up the mug. She took it out of my hands and assured me she’d take care of it, which meant she had no problem drinking what I hadn’t. I thanked her and slumped up the stairs.
It didn’t take long to strip out of my clothes and get a towel. There was a whole basket of those puffy bath sponges in the towel closet, so I helped myself to a blue one. I dug in my bags for my favorite fuzzy pajama pants and a tank top and made a mental note to unpack them later. Even though it was June in the deep south, with how cold Aunt Sara and Grandma had the air conditioner, I’d freeze my ass off if I wore anything other than long pants to bed.
When I’d wrapped the towel around myself and laid out my pajamas, I headed to the bathroom and closed the door behind me. Moments later, I stepped into the tub with my bath sponge and drew the flowery curtain across the rod. Now, I generally considered myself a fairly smart person. I mean, I can find the derivative of a curve without a calculator and analyze Shakespeare like nobody’s business, but when it comes to using someone else’s shower, I feel like a total baboon. Emily’s shower functioned the same as the one I was used to from home, but using Aunt Sara’s was like trying to speak a foreign language you’ve never studied. There were three knobs instead of the usual two—none of which were labeled, might I add—and so I stood there in the tub, fiddling with them for a solid minute thinking there had to be some magical combination before I realized that the left knob was hot, the right one was cold, and the one in the middle was used to turn the shower. It would have made sense, really, if they all three functioned in the same capacity. But the hot and cold ones tu
rned. The middle one you had to pull out, then push up. It was like the Rubik’s Cubes of showers. Go figure.
To top it all off, when you pushed the middle knob the whole way and the water blasted out of the shower head, it was much colder than the water that came out of the tub’s faucet. It may as well have been glacier water that rained down on me. I’m sure it would have been a sight to see when I jumped and flattened myself against the wall to avoid as much arctic water as I could. I tried to pretzel my arm around to twiddle the knobs. Finally, I adjusted it to a nice, toasty temperature. The hot water felt amazing pouring over my body, especially after the cold water wake up call. I wet my hair first and breathed in the steam to relax.
I continued on with a normal shower routine—shampooing, conditioning, etc.—trying to clear my head, but I found my mind wandering to Noah. Damn, he’s even invading my shower time. I couldn’t deny he was attractive with that dark hair, tanned skin, and toned physique—even if he was arrogant as hell. The last thing he deserved was my attention.
If anyone deserved that, it was Mark. He’d been the one person, besides Emily, who had been there through everything I’d ever had to endure. He made me soup when I got food poisoning, he let me vent when I was frustrated or on the rare occasions when I’d fight with my parents, and he even helped me nurse my self-esteem back from every heartbreak I’d suffered from the jerks I’d dated. While I stood there in the shower, washing over the flower Emily had drawn on my arm in Sharpie before I left, it dawned on me just how difficult that must’ve been for him. After what he told me—that he had been head over heels for me for quite some time—that meant hearing me cry over other guys couldn’t have been easy, and he never once complained. I bet Noah wouldn’t do that. I shook my head to rid my thoughts of the still unwelcome invasion.
Dirty SEAL (A Navy SEAL Romance) (The Maxwell Family) Page 102