“I miss him too,” she says after a moment. “Every day.”
Of course she does. Ashton and I lost our grandaddy, but Mom lost her father—the man who raised her, who adored her from day one. She never knew her mom, who passed shortly after she was born, and her father never remarried. He spent the rest of his life devoted to two things: his daughter, and his ranch. Later, he added his grandchildren to that list. With Grandaddy Smith’s passing, Mom was alone—no siblings, no parents, no aunts or uncles or grandparents. The ranch is hers now. Dad and I work it, with the help of Brooks and his family, and a couple other ranch hands who’ve been with us for decades. Butno one has managed to fill the gaping hole left behind—either on the ranch, in our home, or in our hearts.
Mom and I sit in silence for a while, holding each other. In the distance, cattle vocalise and engines roar. A light breeze rustles the leaves on the trees, and birds sing happily, calling out to each other like they’ve no idea there are two hearts broken on the patio bench.
“I met someone in New York,” I say after a few minutes of quiet. I’m not sure why I’m telling Mom about the woman I talked to for all of ten minutes and will probably never see again, but meeting Ruth feels like some kind of paradigm shift. Like my life might not ever be the same, now that I know she exists in the same timeline. That somewhere out there, she’s living, and we’re sharing the same world.
“Okay,” Mom says. “You met someone, huh?”
“Yeah.” I exhale slowly. “At the airport, on my way home.”
“Explains why Ashton hasn’t taken great delight in telling me first,” Mom says with a smile. “I take it she doesn’t know, either.”
“No, she doesn’t.” It’s not the whole reason why I haven’t told my sister about Ruth, but it’s definitely a good one.
“Are you gonna tell me any more than that, Ev?”
“Huh? Oh.” I guess I got carried away thinking about Ruth. “She’s beautiful. She drinks margaritas. And I think she’s British.”
“You think?”
“I didn’t really ask. She’s not American.”
“You didn’t ask? Everett—”
“Mom, it’s not like that. I was a gentleman, I promise. I sat at the bar by the most beautiful woman I think I’ve ever seen in my life, I bought her a drink, and we talked for a couple minutes. And then I went to catch my plane home, and I assume she did the same.”
“So, who is she?”
“That’s what I mean, Mom. I have no idea, except that her name is Ruth, and I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“Oh, honey. You remember something else Grandaddy always used to say?”
“What’s that?”
“What’s meant to be will always find a way.If she’s meant to be yours, sweetheart, she’ll find her way back into your orbit, or you’ll find your way into hers.”
Chapter five
Ruth
Another day, another flight—thistime, to Austin, where Trenton Langley’s headquarters are based. I caught a ride to the airport with Amie this morning, and she’ll be on the flight with me, too. She’ll be working, of course, but it’s always nice to have a friendly face onboard—although I imagine I’ll sleep for most of the flight. Amie always sneaks me the best snacks before setting them out as a free-for-all, too. Best friend perks.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep. As expected, less than an hour into the flight, I gave up on emails, laid my seat flat and closed my eyes. When I wake, I’m being bounced around uncomfortably in my seat, and Amie’s concerned eyes are peering over the top of my business class privacy screen as I blink sleepily. She shines a tiny torch down towards my hips.
“Got your seatbelt on, babe?”
I fumble in the folds of my blanket and hook my thumb into the fastened belt, lifting it into the beam of light and exposing it for Amie to see.
“Shouldn’t be too long. Just dodging a few storms. How are you feeling?”
I squint into the dim light of the quiet cabin as I bring my seat upright. How am I feeling? Sleepy. Thirsty. Sick. Amie must sense the last two, at least, because she runs a gentle hand over my hair and promises to be back in a minute. When she returns, she has ginger ale and a stack of paper bags. Luckily, the turbulence passes quickly, and I don’t have to use the bags. I sip at the ginger ale, and an hour later, Amie stops by my seat with a small glass of champagne and two chocolate truffles.
“Sorry it’s not tequila,” she whispers. “But bubbles are bubbles.”
God bless having my best friend working on my flights.
I’m not a beach girl like Amie or a forest girl like Katy. I can’t walk through city streets for hours, caught between looking at the world through a lens and getting lost in some fairytale in my head like Paloma. I guess I’ve just never really found my place in the world, and I thought by now—by the time I reached thirty-two—I would’ve done.
