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“Bossy,” I mutter, but I’m beaming as I plant a big wet one on his lips.
“You love it.”
I don’t stick around to argue. I’m pulling flaps open and digging into the first box to see what kind of make-up birthday presents the guys came up with.
An hour later, I’m sitting on the floor surrounded by new jeans, shirts, sweaters, pajamas, underwear, makeup, toiletries, and, be still, my heart, chocolate. Everything is my size, and has tags on it, and I put two and two together.
“This is why you went to Bozeman today,” I say to Doc and Scrap.
They’re both looking like the cat who got the cream. So is Jud. So are all of them. They all played a part in this. I take my time making rounds and giving everyone hugs and kisses.
“You deserve it, angel,” Grim says, holding me tight. “And so much more.”
By the time Scrap’s playlist ends, my heart is so full of happiness I don’t have it in me to be afraid of Rev. Bouncing on my toes, I ask him if he’s ready to come to bed.
“You go on ahead, little one. I’ll grab a smoke and be along shortly.”
While I wait for him, I fold all my presents back into the boxes and have Grim and Doc help me carry them to my cabin, keeping distance between them, of course. Both of them get an extra goodnight hug and kiss, and then it’s just me and a bunch of boxes in my living room.
I sit on my couch and, by the light of two kerosene lamps, stare at all my gifts, and I feel overwhelmed. This is the nicest thing I’ve experienced in two years. Celebrations like Christmas and birthdays seem like things that happened in a previous life. After I buried my parents and my sister and accepted the fact that my brother must be dead, too, I grieved the loss of all things family. I would never again be surrounded by people who care enough about me to give me presents. I would never again love someone enough to give them presents.
I was wrong.
Tears well up in my eyes and spill over, and I pull my knees up and hug myself. My crying jag gains steam, and soon, I’m sobbing. Gut-deep pain is birthed on every tear.
I cry for all I’ve lost. I cry for what I’ve gained. I cry because I have no idea where I’m going to put all these awesome clothes the guys gave me, since the closet in the bedroom is the size of a phone booth.
I cry because, for the first time in two years, I feel like I might just have a family again.
Chapter 14
Cora
Night 7: Rev
A knock at the doorhas me swiping at my face.
Rev is here.
I must look a mess, but there’s no help for it. I take a lamp with me and let him in.
He’s just been for a smoke, so when I open the door, I expect him to smell like the mini cigars he likes, but he doesn’t. He leans in to kiss my cheek, and he smells clean and fresh, like spearmint and Earl Gray, with only the faintest whisper of lingering tobacco. His hair is wet and hanging loose, telling me he’s just had a shower. A few dreadlocks and thin braids decorate the brown strands. At the ends of the braids are teal beads that make me think of Native American culture. His age shows in his gray goatee and the creases making parentheses around his mouth.
“Evenin’, little one.” He places a bouquet of wildflowers in my hands and strolls in. Hands on hips, he looks around the small kitchen with his back to me. He’s giving me time to wipe away the rest of my tears. “So, this is your place, now, huh?”
I clear my throat. “Um, yeah. I mean, I guess it is.” Brilliant, Cora. “Thanks for the flowers.” I set them on the counter and start searching the cupboards for a vase.
“You’re welcome.”
The closest thing I can find for the flowers is a plastic pitcher like the one my mom used for Kool-Aid. I fill it with water from the tap. I don’t have power in the cabin, but the well provides water. I’m able to wash up and flush the toilet, but if I want a hot shower, I have to make sure the boiler is lit and take it up in the men’s dorm.
In the living room, I hear the floorboards groan as Rev explores. Between the shabby furniture and all my presents, there’s not much walking space, but he’s making do.
While Rev looks around my cabin, I place the flowers in the pitcher. They’re tied with a silky, white ribbon, and they boast every color you’d expect to see in early-autumn blooms: rust, flaming orange, sunset yellow, and lacy white. Spraying up from around the flowers are the wheat-like fronds of uncut grass. For some reason, looking at the simple gift starts up the waterworks again.
My emotions are scraped raw. Tonight was unexpected and wonderful, and now, I’m tired and overwhelmed. I don’t particularly feel like pushing boundaries. But I need to. For Grim and all the men. And for myself.
“If you’re done with the flowers, come on over and have a seat on Daddy’s lap.” Rev’s voice, coming from the living room, is as silky as the ribbon on the flowers.
