Now that I actually had food in my hand, my stomach was going crazy. Hunger hit me like a sharp knife to the gut. I surveyed the table, clocking an extra seat beside a pissed-off looking Bishop. The foreman constantly wore a scowl, but he was staring down Lincoln like he’d personally offended him.
I dropped into the empty space, groaning as the stress of the day began to show. I was running on adrenaline, denial, and an ungodly amount of coffee. “God, I’m starving,” I said, immediately digging into the food before me. I groaned as the first taste of homemade mac and cheese hit my tongue. It was so good. Honestly, Cook should’ve been in some Michelin-star restaurant rather than working on our ranch.
“Remind me never to volunteer when Cook asks for help. I don’t know how anyone keeps up with him and his standards. He’s nuts!” It was only half-true. He could be a bit extreme, but I kind of enjoyed his company.
Bishop chuckled beside me. “Naw, I think you’ll still help. That’s just who you are.”
For some reason, his comment took me off guard. I’d always felt like my niceties did more harm than good—at least when it came to my own well-being. Rachel and I had joked about oldest-sibling-syndrome in college, but it’d planted a seed in my mind that continued to grow.
Neither Mom nor Dad were exceedingly strict parents. There were basic expectations—manners, respect, and honesty were big in our house—but they didn’t ask for anything they didn’t give in return. They never pushed me to do something I didn’t want to or told me I needed to improve at something I loved. I think it was just a matter of loving them so much I didn’t want to disappoint them.
Rachel said I was a people-pleaser with a heightened sense of responsibility and crushing need for perfectionism, which was a fancy way of telling me I never said no and needed to learn how ASAP. In my defense, no one had taught me to be this way. It just kind of happened.
Without realizing it, the traits people had found endearing became something they expected from me. When I tried to break out of the habit, they pushed back, and guilt struck. Eventually, I found it was easier to just do what they wanted rather than live with their disappointment.
“Well, maybe I don’t want to be that person anymore. Being nice doesn’t get you anything,” I grumbled, staring down at my plate.
I didn’t know why I said it. Clearly, I was still in some kind of funk from my therapy this morning. I was too damn tired to care, though. Bishop was one of the few people I could speak to plainly.
He was a straight shooter and didn’t entertain bullshit or offer comfort because it was the polite thing to do. What you saw was what you got, and there was something refreshing about that.
Not that I’d ever say that to him. I didn’t think I’d survive the scowl he’d give me.
He didn’t push the matter, instead turning the conversation toward complimenting my cooking skills and laughing about my mom’s obsession with those stupid handheld vegetable choppers. We were still going by the time the woman in question wandered over to the table and dropped into the seat next to mine.
“What time does the band go on?” she asked, taking a sip of her wine. “I’m ready to hear some live music.”
“Around seven, I think,” Dad said, checking out the stage. I followed his gaze, noting two white vans peeking out from behind the structure. “I dunno. It was all a little last minute, so I think they’re just making sure everything is good to go.”
Josie leaned forward in her seat. “What do you mean, last minute? This thing has been planned for months.”
Dad sighed. “The band I originally booked canceled a few days ago. Said they’d broken up. Guess our little shindig had gotten missed when they made their cancellations.”
“That sucks. You seemed excited about them.”
“Who’d you get instead?” Lennox asked.
I knew my family was excited, but I really couldn’t care less about music, especially the live kind. On the off chance I let one of them drag me to a concert, I usually sat at the back with some kind of noise-cancelling headphones. Though, my reasoning had nothing to do with the decibel level, and everything to do with the memories attached to music in general.
Dad splayed his hands on the table. “Well, I guess the kid I spoke with was the singer. He seemed pretty confused about why I was even calling at first. I explained the situation, and he said he’d refund the full amount I paid and still do the set.”
Goosebumps prickled across my skin as internal warning bells began ringing out. There was no way. There was absolutely no way. It was coincidence and nothing more. “That’s nice ofhim, but how’s he going to do that if the band’s broken up?” I asked.
Dad shrugged. “I don’t know. Guess he made some calls and they agreed to do one last show. Ain’t that cool?”
Lennox’s smile looked pained. I could feel her eyes scanning my face for a reaction, but I had nothing to give. I was frozen. Locked up on the spot and unable to think or breathe. “Sure is, Dad. Out of curiosity, what’s the name of the band?”
No. No, it is very not cool, I wanted to scream. I couldn’t, of course. Only my sisters knew a fraction of my history with the boy who became a country music star, and it needed to stay that way.
My mind was just being a dick. It was jumping to conclusions like it always did, because there was no way in fucking hell?—
But then a tall figure blocked out the sun and cast a too-familiar shadow across our table. I looked up from beneath my lashes, hoping my heart would stop jumping in my chest.
“Lawson! How the hell are you?” my dad asked, rounding the table to shake my high-school ex-boyfriend’s hand.
Fuck. Me.
cleo
