At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(110)
“Colt, what are you getting at?”
“Can you just tell me if your heart would be broken?”
Reaching overtop of Betty, she pats her hand on my thigh. The sorrowful look in her eyes is a gut punch, telling me what I already knew without any words.
I can’t bear to hear her answer, so I cut her off before she has the chance to destroy me.
“Whit can’t have more kids, Ma. There was some kind of complication or something when Jonas was born and so they like…” I make a nonsensical scooping gesture with my hand. “But she’s—I love her. I love her and I love Jonas, and I really suck at taking your advice because I didn’t take things slow at all. She pushed me away because she thinks it’s really important to me that I have kids, but I’ve realized they’re more than enough for me. They’re—yeah, they’re perfect. They’re my favorite people. And you’re my next favorite, so I wanted your approval. I know you want me to have babies, but fuck…” I stop for a breath, my heart a jackhammer against my sternum.
Mom’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
I can’t stop myself from cutting her off again. “I’ve been so hung up on what you’d think about all of this. So worried about breaking your heart. Now that I’m saying this shit out loud, I’m realizing I don’t need your approval. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed, but you’ll have to get over it. Jonas means so much more to me than some unborn baby I don’t know.”
She tucks the blanket across her chest, her fingers plucking at a loose thread and her searching gaze looking for a way to unravel the words I spewed at her.
“But also…can you please say something?”
She clears her throat. “Do you know what makes me so proud to be your mother? When life hands you a test—even one that makes you question things about yourself—you don’t let it stop you. When you were about eleven, everybody in your class was reading some book…oh, I forget what it’s called now. It was beyond your reading level, for sure, but when you realized you were in over your head, you didn’t quit. You busted your ass for weeks, then came to me and asked if we could read it together.”
“It wasn’t even a good book.” I half-laugh to cut the tension.
“From what little I know, those two deserve somebody who will be good to them and keep them safe, and there’s no safer place for anyone’s heart than in your hands.”
“Their hearts aren’t even in my hands. They’re in my chest, right next to mine.”
Reaching out, Mom squeezes the muscle on my forearm with her cool touch. “Then I suppose I’ll love their hearts as much as I love yours.”
“You’re not disappointed knowing you might never be a grandma?” I ask tentatively. I already know her answer won’t matter, but I can’t help my foolish curiosity. Betty lifts her head from my mom’s lap, as if to point out that this woman is already a grandma, thank you very much.
“Is there a two-grandma limit I’m unaware of? Is Jonas not allowed to have another old lady in his life to bake cookies and spoil him on Christmas?”
I don’t know what his relationship with Alex’s parents is like. Jonas is close with Whit’s parents, but given her mom’s rapid decline, he might find himself grandma-less sooner than any boy should.
“He can always use another person in his corner.”
“Good. So that settles that.” She grabs her coffee mug with both hands, pulling it to her lips with a glimmering smile stretched across her creamy, life-weathered skin.
I’m going to be with Whit.
That settles that.
Whit
Blair’s seated on my bed, watching the havoc I’m unleashing on both my hair and the bathroom counter, sink, and tub with my attempts at dyeing my hair. She provides the support you can only find from an older sister—she’s here because she’s hoping I fuck it up and give her something to laugh about until the day I die.
I stare down at the orange-tinged ends of my brown hair. I watched a few videos online about bleaching your hair and thought I had it in the bag. After all, I dyed my hair black a few times when I was a teenager. How hard could bleach be?
Big oops.
“I should’ve gone to a hair salon for this.”
I carefully move to grab the hot pink dye, genuinely afraid my hair might spontaneously fall out of my head if I make any sudden movements. Logically, I know I didn’t touch my roots, so the worst-case scenario is the bottom two inches snapping off, but I’m in a state of general panic over potentially destroying my hair. Logic has no room in this tiny ensuite.
“Nah.” Blair flips through my latest romance read. “It’s mandatory for post-breakup hair changes to be done at home.”
“This has nothing to do with Colt,” I snap unintentionally.
“Sure.” The flipping of pages stops; she must’ve located a sex scene. “Remember when you tried to dye your hair bright red after a breakup with Alex, and it turned the ugliest orange?”
Oh, I remember, all right. My mom dragged me to the salon—not to fix it, but to cover it with the mousiest brown imaginable.
“Yeah…” I scrunch my nose at my reflection in the mirror. “Mom acted like I’d committed some horrible sin. As if teenagers don’t do that type of thing all the time.”