Rider’s Block

24. Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter twenty-four

“What If,” Kane Brown and Lauren Aliana

I wake up the morning of July fifth thinking the whole conversation with Eric was a dream. That theory is quickly dispelled when I see a sticky note attached to a small package on my front porch that simply says, “Fuel up, those pages won’t finish themselves,” attached to a scone he clearly had to go to town to fetch. I mean I know he’s a morning person, but the gesture has my heart skipping a few beats.

I spend the first half of the morning picking over the scone while I pick over every detail he said that I could remember last night. I want to believe every word of it just as much as I want to move myself right into the denial category and assume he just had too much to drink and is a guts spiller when he drinks. But realistically that doesn’t help either.

There’s no doubt in my mind why I’m having a hard time trusting him. I spent a long time with a therapist working through the fact that it’s perfectly normal for me to have some trust issues when it comes to people sticking around. My dad did a number on the family, and that’s just something I need to remind myself of periodically.

Eric seems like the kind of guy who sticks to his guns, but I would have said the same thing about my dad. When he left, my ability to judge someone’s character with confidence left as well.

The problem that I can’t get out of my head is that the same issue is part of this equation as it was with my dad—the need for success. How long until Eric believes that I’m holding him back? How long until I become a source of distraction for him? If he loses, will he resent me for it?

That’s not a position I want to be in, ever.

Doing as he suggests, I buckle down for a solid few hours before I hear a knock at my door. Actually, by the time I register the knock at my door, I realize it’s been several knocks that are getting progressively more urgent sounding, so I rub my eyes behind my glasses that I use only when I’m really in the writing mood and get the door.

Standing in my door frame is none other than my favorite confusing cowboy I’ve been trying not to think about too much while I get my work done, because he’s distracting, and he’s holding a paper bag with flowers sticking out of the top.

“Well shit, haven’t seen the glasses yet. Damn, baby, those are cute.” Without invitation he steps through the door and starts to arrange food in plastic containers on the small bistro table in my kitchen. “Figured you’d get in the zone again and forget to feed yourself, am I right?”

“I had the scone this morning…” And at that moment my stomach decides to throw me under the bus and grumble at an audible level that is more than embarrassing

“That’s what I thought.” Smugness doesn’t become him.

That’s a lie. He makes everything look good.

And, to my poor, poor heart’s knowledge, he even knows how to make flowers look good. He’s snipping the stems (at an angle, bless him) at my sink and putting them in a vase he got from who knows where when I finally sit down and analyze what I’m looking at.

“What’s on the menu? This looks like quite the assortment.”

“Well, Mom’s been doing a good job showing you our style of food, but as much as I love that woman—and this sentence does not leave the safety of this cottage—Grandma Betsy was the real queen of the cowboy kitchen. I spent a summer with her, and she showed me how to make her favorite casseroles. I didn’t think you’d get the full experience without them.”

“When on earth did you have time to get all of this?”

“Do you know what time it is, baby?”

I look out the window to try and register the positioning of the sun before I admit I haven’t looked at a clock since waking up. It’s much lower than I would have guessed. I am also actively trying not to keep a live tally of the number of times he’s called me “baby.” We’re at two for the day, and I’m not sure my heart can handle many more.

“Uh…well, it looks to be past noon at least…” That earns one of Eric’s deep belly laughs I’ve missed so much the past week.

“Red, it’s five p.m., and all you’ve eaten for the day is a scone.” I shrug at his correct assessment and look around again at the six containers in front of me. “I didn’t have anything I needed to get done today, and no one’s eating at the house tonight. Last time that happened you ate a stale bag of almonds. Didn’t want you to starve—”

“Wait,” I cut him off when it finally registers, “You cooked all of this?”

His answering smirk confirms my suspicion as he opens up each container. They’re small, sample sizes really, and I’m hit with wave after wave of savory scents that make me sort of want to shove my face in each container. Specifically, the one that looks to have the top layer of mashed potatoes. My stomach rolls again, and Eric continues to laugh at me while he sets each tray in a line in front of me.

“Alright, so the first thing you need to know about a good cowboy casserole is that they’re logical. They taste good, feed a lot, and use ingredients we have around. You can really make a casserole out of anything, but these were Grandma Betsy’s favorites.”

He proceeds to show me that while there are six different containers in front of me, they’re all really a slight variation of each other with different seasonings and different ways to prepare the vegetables. For example, the difference between the shepherd’s pie (the one covered in mashed potatoes that I immediately dove into) and the tot casserole was simply just the fact that the tot casserole had the base layer of tater tots instead of creamy potatoes. Both had ground beef—a staple, Eric explained with a sort of “duh” look on his face while he succinctly reminded me that I was on a ranch—both had cheese, both had a cream, but the preparation created a big difference. In my humble opinion.

There were two containers of a chicken casserole, one casserole seemed to be all vegetables, and the last one was truly the most hodgepodge seeming of them all, but still somehow worked.

We made easy work of clearing out the dishes, to my surprise. Even though they were small they were filling, but honestly Eric had more to do with polishing off the plates than I did. Where he hides all of those carbs I will never know, but the man doesn’t look like he eats potatoes and red meat all the time. Nope. Not at all. That man looks like he wrestles steers, which is exactly the kind of sentence I didn’t think I’d have an understanding of before this trip.

The thought reminds me this whole thing has an end date. I leave. I don’t stay. And he doesn’t leave. And he has goals to accomplish. I should stop myself, I should filter, but apparently, I used up all of my brain cells on the book today.

“Eric, what are you doing?”

He looks over his shoulder as he’s scrubbing the last of the dishes, eyebrows up so high they’re hidden under his cowboy hat. “Dishes, Red. Why am I—”

“No, not that,” the exasperation in my voice clearly evident. “This.” I wave my hands between us because I sure as hell am not going to attempt to put words behind what’s going on.

The movement earns me a small belly laugh that I can’t hear over the running water, but can see in the movement of his shoulders as he shuts the water off and turns to face me.

“I think I’m being pretty obvious.” He sends a pointed look at the flowers, as if a nice bouquet of zinnias replaces any need for words.

“No, what was obvious was your complete desire to not have anything to do with me less than a day ago. And—”

He cuts me off before I truly go off the rails. “I see I’ve got my work cut out for me, but I’ve always liked a challenge.”

“I’ve told you once not to say things you don’t mean.”

“And I’ve told you I mean every word. For someone who does words for a living, you sure don’t put much stake in them, do you?”

“As someone who does words for a living, I know how little they mean if they don’t have the actions behind them. Eric, you can’t just one-eighty on me like this.”

“If it makes you feel better, it only feels like a one-eighty to you because you don’t know where my head’s been at since you drove that pathetic little excuse for a car up the lane.”

“Eric.”

“Amelia,” he drawls out as he looks down at me, and it’s then that I realize how much closer he’s gotten to where I’m standing while we were talking. Lifting his hand up to tilt my chin up to look at him he adds, “I was a shit, I’m sorry.”

“Still just words there, buddy.”

“And flowers.”

“They are beautiful.” I look over to the stems in question. “But I’m just not looking for a fling, and I don’t know how this will work in two months.” I pause for a second, and thinking about how fun it was to simply be his friend while he was in his better mood, I try to take what I can get. “But I do want to be your friend, think we can be friends?”

“Friends?” The right side of his mouth kicks up just enough to know he finds the concept amusing.

“Yes, friends. You are familiar with the concept, are you not?”

“Oh, I know what you mean. Sure, baby. We can start there.”

I roll my eyes marginally at the way everything about his answer seemed to be patronizing, but deep down he knows I’m right. I know I’m right. Best to level set expectations now before things get out of hand. Friends.

Back to a relative normal. Back to suppressing any and all butterflies that choose to invade my stomach.

***

Throughout my stay I’ve learned a few anchor dates that remind me time is passing a little quicker than I’d like it to. Everyone goes to church Sunday morning, so the big meal is a lunch instead of a dinner. Fridays are for deliveries at the farm. Thursday dinners almost always end with a round of roping, and Wednesdays Penny’s shop gets a restock.

Timing my visit perfectly, I swing by just as the hectic part is over, so I bring her lunch. I tell myself I’m not snooping, but we all know I’m snooping. Dean already gave me the play-by-play of every interaction they had while he was shopping— which consisted of two whole coherent sentences, a feat hitherto unseen—so yeah, of course I’m snooping. There’s no shame in wanting to get a gauge on how Penny is feeling.

According to Dean, this is the most they’ve interacted in four years, but he tends to exaggerate so I take his optimism with a grain of salt.

Plus, I’ll do anything at this point to avoid the onslaught of emotions tied to being Eric Randall’s “friend.” The man has brought me coffee and a treat at random this past week if he has a task he has to go off and do. When he doesn’t have a task to do, he’s usually popping into my little cottage for no more than ten minutes at a time. No rhyme or reason, usually just to check on something, tell me something that could have easily been a text, or whatever other excuse he has up his sleeve.

Obviously, I’d like to avoid admitting how much I love it. I genuinely enjoy his company, but if I tell myself how much I enjoy his company, it’ll make it that much more difficult to leave when I have to, and the days are ticking by. I only have about six weeks left, but I shove that thought aside as I walk into Penny’s store.

She’s up at the cash register with her head buried in a catalogue when she sees me walk in. Trying to get a quick read on her expression I notice right off the bat that there’s a marginally increased pep in her step, but too marginal to know if it’s because of Dean or because she’s got a whole new line of sparkly belts displayed by the front counter.

Holding one up, I ask, “You sure I can’t have one of these?”

“Mia, my friend, I say this—and I hope you take it as the compliment it is intended to be—it is just not your personality. You’re too mellow for one of those.”

“Mellow is good?”

“Mellow is California, mellow is naturally wavy hair, mellow is chill. Plus, you couldn’t wear that one with your red boots, and we all know the boots take priority.” Her wink puts me right back to thinking about the cowboy I’m attempting to avoid, so I take control of the conversation before it can get too out of hand.

“Yes, well since they saved me from a snake bite and I won a boot scramble with them, I am rather partial to them. How’s your week been? Busy?” I think I do a pretty good job of keeping my face neutral, but her expression tells me I’m not nearly as subtle as I think.

“Not at all. Pretty slow, really. Most boring round of customers I’ve ever had, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, now that you’re being a turd about it, I’ll just go right out and ask. Did Dean come in?”

“He did.”

“And did you guys talk?”

“I answered his questions.”

“Cordially?”

“YES, Mom. My God, no need for the Spanish Inquisition.”

“I tried to lead with a hint but you took it in the wrong direction so I thought direct would be the best approach.” The uptick in her mouth reveals her hand a little too much; I can tell I’m making progress. “Was he nice?”

“Too nice if you ask me.”

“And how’s that?”

“He knows how I feel about him, and he’s done nothing to prove me wrong for years, so I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing now.”

“Have you ever thought that perhaps he might have grown up a smidgen and gained some perspective…and, dare I say, wisdom?”

“That would require him to be introspective and take his attention away from anyone walking by with a pair of breasts for all of ten minutes, and I’ve yet to see that happen in person.”

“Is that so?” I give her a second to reply, but her silence is damning. “Have you seen him go on a date recently?” Feeling like I might be getting somewhere, I carry on. “And have you seen him give another woman the time of day in the past two weeks?”

“Good behavior for two weeks does not a lifetime make. I appreciate it, Mia, I really do. The effort is flattering. But that boat has left the dock…that helicopter is off the tarmac…that flight has landed—wait that wasn’t right, but you get the point.” Everything about her demeanor proves her point wrong, but I’ll let it slide for right now.

“I’ll let it go for right now on one condition—”

“Oh boy, here we go—”

“You come to dinner at the ranch with me at least twice a week while I’m here.”

“Good Lord, woman!”

“I’ve only got six weeks left, and I want to capitalize on them. I’m feeling a little—”

“Sad? Remorseful? Ready to make this your new home?”

“Penny. We’re talking about you here, not me. I’m trying to flatter you by admitting you’re my friend and I’d like to have you around for dinner while I’m in town, alright?”

“A real friend wouldn’t leave me, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

I try to hide my eye roll at the impending threat, but I’m strong-willed. Two can play this game. “Do we have a deal?”

“We have a deal. Now come look over here, I got a few dresses in I think you’ll like…”

I spend the rest of the afternoon and a good portion of my monthly allowance appeasing Penny and her most recent purchase whims.

When I was younger, being a shop owner was high on my list of peaceful, fanciful jobs I’d one day like to do. Didn’t matter if it was a flower shop, a bakery, a furniture store, or a boutique. I thought the idea of having a place that was entirely mine to be the boss of sounded like a dream, and specializing in something so specifically that I’d become the town’s go-to in a Mayberry setting felt like I’d have an endless supply of fun social interaction.

One summer spent working at a local bookstore back in Idaho quickly dispelled me of that theory.

The amount of work that goes into running an independent brick-and-mortar location is something I will always, always have respect for. If you don’t love what you do, that location can quickly become a self-inflicted prison, and if you don’t love the trade of what you’re selling, your customers can become a source of dread.

But from the time I’ve spent with Penny, it’s obvious she’s right where she wants to be. She has roots, she’s an expert in what she’s talking about, and she thrives off of customer service.

I drive back to my little cottage in the Colorado plains thinking about how I don’t really have roots. Sure, I love my bungalow in California because it’s mine and I feel that sense of pride that comes with ownership every time I walk through the front door, but none of my real family lives there anymore. My brother hightailed it back to Idaho after everything happened and married his middle school sweetheart (which was the inspiration for book number two for me) and once he had kids of his own, my mom quickly made her way up there as well.

The only reason I stayed at the time was because I had to finish college and I was still dating Jeff. That didn’t exactly turn out how I planned, but at the time I had friends and people around me, so I thought I’d be fine.

But realizing how alone I am in California quickly puts me in a funky mood.

Pulling up to park my car, I’m so distracted I don’t see the mountain of a man sitting at the tiny bistro table, waiting for me. It looks like he has something small packaged in his hands, but anything he holds looks small.

I don’t want to think about how seeing him there, waiting for me, immediately lifts my funky mood. I don’t want to think about how I may not have felt so alone at that moment. I don’t want to think about the fact that having him as a friend is quickly becoming a constant in my life. Nope, no time to dwell on such things when a six-foot-two man with a German shepherd personality is waiting for me to join him.