At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(72)
Arms loaded with food and glass bottles of a pop brand I’ve never heard of, we settle onto a rickety wooden picnic table. It’s nothing like meals I’ve shared with Whit and Jonas before, and not only because of the mariachi blasting from a Bluetooth speaker. We pick at our dinner in terse silence, until it’s so unbearable I find myself studying the table’s wood grain between bites of the most incredible taco I’ve ever had. Betty’s muzzle rests on top of my thighs, waiting for crumbs to fall into my lap in the same way I’m hoping for any morsel of conversation.
I’m dangerously close to making an inappropriate taco joke to lighten the mood, and at the last second my brain opts to overexplain the menu situation instead. “So I don’t actually need glasses—I can see for miles, man. So good, I’m pretty sure my eye doctor decides if people need glasses based on how their vision stacks up to mine. But anyway, I—well, I have a hard time reading when it’s all scribbled and smushed together like that.
“To be fair, I have a hard time reading, in general. I can read, it just takes a bit more focus because of my dyslexia. So like…yeah, I could read the menu if I really tried, I’m sure. But it doesn’t come to me fast enough. Then there’s pressure to order and that makes it even harder.”
Jonas gnaws on a two-handed burrito, raising his eyebrow in confusion. And when I brave a glance at Whit, I’m met with soft, kind eyes. No pity or judgment. She’s all warmth.
“Honestly, I think it’s the universe’s way of humbling me. Can’t have me being this damn attractive and good at everything.”
“You suck at fishing, too.” Big sass coming from a guy with a dab of guacamole on his cheek. “And that green shirt makes you look like an M&M.”
Now hold on—isn’t the green M&M a girl?
“Jonas.” Whit knocks him down a few pegs with that razor-sharp stare of hers, doing more damage than any response I could formulate. “Enough.”
He rolls his eyes with a huff before returning to dinner. Whit’s foot taps against mine under the table. And I spend the rest of my meal fighting back a smile.
Whit
“Don’t think you’re off the hook. We’re gonna have a talk about consequences for your behavior today.”
“Can’t wait,” Jonas replies sarcastically, trudging up the stairs with Betty at his side and slamming his bedroom door behind them.
Typically, I’d follow. Insist on duking it out right now. Then I’d fall apart on the floor of the laundry room and pick myself up just enough to collapse in bed.
But tonight, Colt’s here. Kicking off his boots as if he’s planning on staying awhile. Something about his unfailing presence allows my lungs to finally inflate to their full capacity. The long exhale when I sink onto the couch is glorious.
“How are you feeling?” Colt plops down on the cushion next to mine, sideways so his knee rests against my leg. The room’s lit only with the golden glow of dusk, and he’s so handsome it hurts.
Digging my fingertips into my temples, I sigh. “Tired.”
I’m tired, all right. Tired of feeling like I picked the world’s shittiest father for my son. Tired of knowing whatever I’m feeling about Colt can only be temporary. Tired of questioning every decision I make and worrying about whether my kid is going to turn out okay. Things haven’t been this awful between Jonas and me since the start of summer, but he’s home. He’s safe. And right now, I’m too tired to dwell on anything beyond that.
My stare drifts to the staircase, where distorted guitar riffs and a muffled drumbeat echo down from Jonas’s room. Under normal circumstances, catching him listening to one of my favorite punk albums would fill me with pride. But this is hitting a little too close to home. Reminiscent of the hours I spent screaming along to the most angsty and raw music I could find—anything by artists who seemed as misunderstood as I felt.
“He went to Alex. He chose him over me.”
I can’t help but wonder if I’ve officially lost him. Soon he’ll ask to move in with his dad, at eighteen he’ll cut me out entirely, and one day I’ll be lucky to see him on holidays. I remember whispering promises to Jonas as his tiny eight-pound body slept on my chest—I’d never be like my parents. Never make him wonder if my love was conditional or make him feel less than.
Now here we are. I wish I’d tried harder to talk to my mom before her diagnosis. If we’d mended those strained ties, maybe, just maybe, I could figure out where things went so wrong with my son. And I could do better.
A hand eases onto my leg, fingers spread wide, the heat of his palm permeating through the thin fabric.
“My dad was gone a lot, working and rodeoing and lord knows what else. But whenever his shitty old truck rattled up the driveway, my brother and I would bolt outside to see him.” His voice is steady but raw. “Doesn’t mean we loved our mom any less…. It’s like there was a door that never opened in our house, and we couldn’t help but give the knob a jiggle every now and then.”
“You think that’s what Jonas is doing?”
He nods gently. “You’re still his safe place. When the door doesn’t budge, or when Alex cracks it open and slams it on his fingers, Jonas is coming to you. Sure, he ran there, but he came home with you.”