Cowboy Baby Daddy

by Claire Adams

  I shrugged while my mind threw me back to last weekend. I had gotten his invite to the party just as my stepsister and I were unhooking our parents from their ventilators. They’d been in a major car accident, and neither my sister nor I even knew they were traveling out of town until the police called us.

  Well, they called Stella. They showed up on my doorstep.

  “It’s your mom, dude. I know there’s more there than a shrug,” Todd said.

  “It is what it is. Nothing I can do about it. We buried them yesterday. The nightmare is over,” I said.

  “Wait, you buried them yesterday? As in, Thursday yesterday? The fuck didn’t you tell me, man? I would’ve been there!”

  “It was just a small gathering. You know my mother and her husband kept to themselves. Plus, my mom thought you were annoying,” I said.

  “She just had the hots for me, that’s all,” he said, grinning.

  “You think every cougar has the hots for you,” I said.

  “Because they do. You should see the way some of these women stare at me when they come in. They’re all about it, man.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said. “Anyway, the reading of their wills is on Monday,” I said.

  “Ooooh, nice. Expecting anything fun? Exciting? Lucrative?” he asked.

  “It’s really not a big deal,” I said. “I’ll sit there and listen to them leave everything to Stella, then I’ll go get a drink and go home.”

  “Speaking of Stella, how’s your sister holding up?” he asked.

  “Stepsister, and we don’t talk much,” I said.

  “You just lost your mother, and she just lost her father. You mean to tell me you guys haven’t talked at all?” he asked. The look on his face was almost comical. Almost.

  “I mean, we didn’t get along growing up,” I said, leaning against the counter. “She was the bright and shining star, and I was the kid who always needed to be like her. It wasn’t exactly a love-hate relationship, but it was pretty fucking close. Nothing like standing in the shadow of someone who did nothing wrong, ever.”

  “But, isn’t she younger than you? Isn’t the shadow supposed to be cast on the younger kid?” he asked and lifted an eyebrow. He had to think I was being an idiot.

  “You’d think. But, no. Plus, she was a massive brat.” I glanced down at my hands before looking back up at him. “A major pain in the ass. To everyone.”

  “How so?” he asked.

  “Picky about everything: her food, the way she looked, the people she hung out with. She was one of those ‘mean girls’ without ever intentionally being a bitch to their face. Always played it innocent with her light green eyes,” I said.

  “So, you didn’t get along with her because she was manipulative and spoiled?” he asked.

  “I didn’t get along with her because she was the favorite. Even with my mother, she treated her differently. It was odd. I don’t know how to explain it,” I said.

  “Well, try,” he said.

  “Could you do that after you take my order?” a masculine voice resounded from beside us. The aggravation in it wasn’t hidden in the slightest.

  We both turned our heads and looked at the frustrated customer standing at the register. He was drumming his fingers on the counter and sticking his tongue in his cheek, and I saw Todd put on his best customer service smile before he went over to work.

  “Forgive me; my friend just lost his mother. Can I help you?” Todd asked, giving the guy a look that could be kind or a warning, depending on if you knew him.

  “I don’t know, can you?” the man asked, his shoulders pulled back, his grimace growing by the minute. Asshole.

  “I most certainly can. It’s why I’m behind the counter,” Todd said, still smiling. “What would you like this morning?”

  “Someone who’s smart enough to give me some options,” he said.

  “That’s what the menu behind my head is for, sir,” Todd said, keeping his cool far better than I would have been able to.

  “I never look at menus; it never showcases a coffee house's best options. What are your specialties? Or signature drinks?” the man asked.

  “We have a town favorite that consists of white chocolate mocha and raspberry syrup. Or, we have a grapefruit and elderberry coffee we’re about to phase out before the pumpkin spice hits the shelves. Either of those sound appealing?” Todd asked.

  “No, and now I’m running behind because you and your friend couldn’t stop talking. Just give me a large coffee with room for sugar. I’m late for my dissertation,” the man said.

  “Coming right up. What are you getting your doctorate in?” Todd asked the man.

  “Surprised someone with your lack of degree cares,” the man mumbled.

  “Actually, sir, degrees don’t quantify intelligence,” I said.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Degrees don’t quantify intelligence. Degrees are simply a measure of how an individual persevered through enough schooling to obtain years of instruction in a particular field. Just as an IQ score does not accurately quantify overall intelligence, neither does a degree. Your doctorate doesn’t hold a weight against how smart you are; it only informs individuals you were willing to pay an exorbitant amount of money to receive further instruction in a specific field. Whether it’s a two-year degree or a doctorate.”

  I heard Todd snicker as he was putting the cap on the man’s large cup of coffee while I held the gaze of a very angry, tired doctoral student.

  “Just because my friend here doesn’t have a doctorate like you are attempting to achieve does not mean he isn’t intelligent. It’s no more plausible for someone to swim in a pool and call themselves a fish than it is to receive a doctorate and call themselves smart,” I said.

  “That’ll be $3.26, please,” Todd said. I never could have dealt with some of the dicks he had to deal with on a regular basis.

  The man, huffing with anger and red in the face, threw a $5 bill onto the counter, grabbed his coffee, and stormed out. No matter how many times I stepped out into the public, it never ceased to amaze me just how fucking entitled people felt because they got degrees in some specialized area. Even people with simple two-year degrees held their heads higher just because they had some piece of paper on their wall stating they knew some shit.

  It was fucking insane.

  “I think that man would’ve really benefitted from the elderberry. It’s known to naturally lower blood sugars, help out if you have seasonal allergies, and stop you from being a massive pain in the dick,” Todd said.

  I chuckled at the counter, thankful that he was now free to continue talking. Mid-mornings on Fridays were slow, so I always made it a point to come in and catch up with him whenever I was free.

  “Was all that shit you said true?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “That shit about the degrees and IQ scores. Did you pull that out of your ass or what?”

  “Oh, no. It’s true. Read it in some science and medicine journal a few weeks back,” I said.

  Todd stared at me blankly before he huffed and shook his head. The smell of burnt bagels had died down, replacing itself with a warm sweetness I couldn’t place. I figured it was probably one of Todd’s latest concoctions he was working on in the back, and I made a mental note to ask him about it later.

  “The hell you doin’ man?” he asked.

  “Well, I’m about to ask you for another delicious cold brew,” I said.

  “No, no, no. With your life, Christian. I mean, listen to yourself. You read that kind of shit for fun. You don’t take people down with anger; you do it with your intelligence. You’ve really got somethin’ goin’ for you. Much more than I’ve got,” he said.

  “Don’t start down this road. You and I both know that if you left this coffee shop and took your ideas and creations elsewhere, they’d shut their doors within a month. You single-handedly keep this place alive, and I know it’s why you stay,” I said.

  “I stay becau
se I've got a good thing going here. Why fix what ain’t broke?” he asked.

  “And I’ve got a good thing going, too. I’ve got no plans to get some dumbass job that puts me in an office 24/7 and makes me rub my intelligence in people’s faces. Not my thing, and never will be,” I said.

  “So, you admit you’re smart,” he said.

  “I admit I know useless shit that is sometimes helpful in some areas,” I said.

  “Uh huh,” he said, smirking. “You keep tellin’ yourself that, Christian.”

  “Besides, those types of people are the kind I hate. People who think their degrees and specialties and internships make them experts in fields they have no actual work experience in. They come in to do interviews with years of schooling but no hands-on experience, and they’re automatically hired over other people who do have experience, and for what? They’re fucking spoiled,” I said.

  “Like your stepsister?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Like my fucking stepsister,” I said.

  “That why you guys didn’t get along? Because she did something with her intelligence and you didn’t?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “We didn’t get along because everyone assumed she was intelligent.”

  “Why’d they do that?” he asked.

  “Because Stella was always the girl with her nose in a book underneath the tree,” I said.

  “Wow. You hate your stepsister because she read instead of sucked dicks all through high school,” he said, chuckling. “What a bitch.”

  “Are you going to keep telling me about this weekend or not?” I asked.

  “Actually, I got somethin’ goin’ in the back I need to check on. Raincheck for the stories?” he asked.

  “Remind me to ask you what the hell it is you’re working on. It smells very sweet,” I said.

  “Will do. Listen, if I were you—”

  “Here we go,” I said, sighing.

  “If I were you, I’d recognize the fact that Stella just lost her father. You play it off with your jokes and distractions, but I know you’re in pain. And you know I’m here for you. But, she just lost her dad. Go see her,” he said.

  “And do what? Take her out for food and act like we’ve been talking for the past nine years?” I asked.

  “That’d be a nice start. Good luck, man!”

  “I’m not going and seeing my stepsister, Todd,” I said.

  “Let me know how it goes!” he yelled back at me.

  Chapter Two

  Stella

  Walking into the house made my hands shake. Even though my father built and owned his own medical supplies company, Harte To Heart, he still lived a very modest life. I was thankful he found a woman like my stepmother. Someone who enjoyed him instead of the money his company brought in, and it afforded him the ability to jet them off anywhere and everywhere they wished. They didn’t spend a lot of money on houses or cars or property taxes, and it gave him the ability to show me how a relationship really worked.

  My father and birth mother divorced when I was young. I don’t remember any of the fighting or the breakup, but I do remember the moment my father won sole custody of me. For the life of me, I couldn't understand why I couldn’t go with my mother. I remember kicking and screaming in court, begging and reaching out for my mom while my father held me close and walked out. I could remember the lifeless pain in my mother’s eyes — how sunken in they were and how pale her skin was.

  For all my young life, I’d convinced myself that taking me away from her killed my mother. She died when I was 12, and I cursed my father for taking me from her. I told him if he would’ve let me stay with her, she would’ve been just fine.

  Being a girl, I needed a mother more than I needed my father. I felt the loss of my mom acutely. So, when he married my stepmother, I grew very close to her. Closer than most stepchildren probably get to their stepparent.

  It wasn’t until I was 18 that my father sat me down and told me everything. He shared about my mother’s drug addiction. How she was diagnosed with postpartum depression and was too proud to get help for it. She sought solace in the bottoms of bottles of booze, and in the pills she convinced the doctor to keep prescribing for her cesarean section pain. He told me she was a wonderful woman until the drugs and alcohol took over. She allowed her pride to step so far into the way that it resulted in my neglect.

  I’d never cried so hard in my father’s arms until that day when I apologized for how I treated him as a child.

  Now, I was walking through their meager little home. I left the door open to air out the musky smell wafting around my head, but soon the walls of the home drew me in. Its three bedrooms and two-and-a-half baths brought back memories of my stepmother and I cooking in the kitchen while my father worked in his office. Memories of my father surprising me with another book I could read under the massive weeping willow that sat next to the lake on our property.

  Memories of always fighting with my idiotic stepbrother over useless shit.

  I ran my hands over the delicate blue my stepmother convinced my father to use on the hallway walls. I could smell her sea cotton perfume wafting in the corners as I rounded into the kitchen. Tears rose in my eyes as I watched memories of us dance in my vision. I could see my jet black hair bobbing against my shoulders as she lifted me up to let me stir the cake batter. I could see her showing me how to accurately cook rice, spiced with a bit of pepper and butter. I smiled at the memory of her throwing open the double doors to the backyard, watching me run to the weeping willow with my newest book while her pies cooled on the windowsill.

  But my footsteps stopped when I found myself at the entryway to my father’s office.

  The smell of his earthy cologne coupled with the reminiscence of his cinnamon cigars smacked me directly in the face. I closed my eyes, listening for the scuffling of his patent leather shoes against the kitchen floor. I could hear the kiss he planted on my stepmother’s cheek just before he rounded the corner to head for his office.

  But, when I turned around to greet him, no one was there.

  “Oh, Daddy,” I said in a whisper.

  A tear dripped onto my cheek before I drew in a shaky breath. I threw the door to his office open, watching the dust slowly drift around in my vision, and the first thing I saw was the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books that he would never touch again.

  I got my love of reading from him. I had a goal when I was younger to read every single book he had on his shelves by the time I graduated with my bachelor’s degree. I’d come home every single weekend and devour the books in his office, but I was only halfway through them by the time I finished my two-year degree.

  I walked over to his desk, trembling with emotion while the tears slid down my cheeks, and my fingertips reached out to grace the edge of his desk. The deep, thick mahogany wood was smooth underneath my touch, releasing smells into the air it had absorbed over the years. That was the thing about walls and furniture — they seemed to sense when there was a loss.

  I was convinced houses had muscle memory. They could soak up secrets and memories and smells, then release them whenever someone was absent. The walls would open their microscopic crevices and release the scents and sounds they were holding onto, and the furniture would blow small puffs of memories into the air. It would fill rooms with the sensory reminiscence of the things it missed most, and I convinced myself that this was why houses always smelled like the people who inhabited them.

  I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath, soaking in the smells the desks and books had for me while the memories they whispered blanketed my conscious mind.

  I was so wrapped up in my memories and looking at all of my father’s trophies and awards that I didn’t even hear someone walk in.

  “Hey there, Stella.”

  I startled and opened my eyes to see Greyson leaning up against the doorway of my father’s office. He wore a smirk while his hands were jammed into his pockets, and the look in his eye told me he wasn’t here to
give his condolences.

  I wasn’t in the mood for his sly tricks and bullshit accusations. Not today.

  Not during this moment in my life.

  “Hey, Greyson,” I said.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Could be better,” I said, sighing.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “My dad died,” I said, flatly.

  “Ah, that. Well, why don’t I take you to dinner? Cheer you up a bit?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. I don’t really feel like going anywhere,” I said.

  “It’ll get you out. I’m sure you’ve been drowning yourself in tears in your childhood bed or something,” he said.

  “Not really. Just walked in about an hour ago,” I said as I walked over to my father’s trophy case.

  “He was a very intelligent man,” Greyson said.

  “I know.”

  “You take after him,” he said.

  “I know that, too,” I said.

  “Then, let me tell you something you don’t know,” he said. “If you come to dinner with me, it will take your mind off things. I have many stories to fill you in on, and I’m sure you have plenty of stories yourself.”

  “You know I can’t talk about the cases I see at work,” I said.

  “Oh, come on. You’re just a paramedic. I know a few paramedics. They talk about what they see all the time.”

  “Well, they’re not supposed to,” I said.

  “Just come to dinner. It’s free, for crying out loud. This house won’t be going anywhere anytime soon,” he said.

  “I said no, Greyson. I don’t feel like going anywhere. I need to go through my father’s things and sort through some paperwork, and then the reading of their wills is on Monday,” I said.

  “All the more reason for you to get your mind off things,” he said.

  “Either stay and help or leave,” I said.

  I heard him huff before he pushed his body off the doorway. It groaned underneath his weight, and I watched him turn his back in the glass of the case. I rose my hands to finger the reflections of the trophies, studying them intently as I reminisced on the awards ceremonies I went to as a child. My father single-handedly changed the face of medical supplies with some of his own personal inventions, and much of the money he had acquired in his older age came from the patents and licensing of the technology he’d developed. He would initially design them to help someone in our community, but they somehow always ended up in the right hands.