“Morning.” I grab Mom’s pill sorter and the mug of tea Dad has set out on the counter as I stroll past. The mug clunks onto a marble coaster, and I pop open the lid labeledTuesdaya.m., dumping the pills into Mom’s open palm.
“Hey, I was thinking maybe we could go get a manicure after your doctor’s appointment in Sheridan next week? I desperately need one.”
Refusing to break her gaze from Vanna White’s demonstration of a white hybrid sedan, she shrugs one shoulder as she swallows the colored assortment of pills. “Sure.”
“Perfect. Let me do your hair for you before I head out to Cassidy’s house to babysit, okay?”
She nods once and I head for the bathroom to grab supplies. Then spend a solid ten minutes teasing away every knot, dampening the strands with a light mist of water, and pulling her hair into a secure bun. It’s not that she isn’t physically capable of brushing her own hair—she simply doesn’t care. And her depression is making things harder on Dad, who’s been busting his ass to keep her safe and happy since the diagnosis. He installed the door alarms and cameras, spent hours googling medication options to ask the doctor about, and insisted I didn’t need to move back in with them. And, for a brief second, I considered staying in the city; I loved my gorgeous apartment, my wonderful roommate, and my well-paid career at the Women’s Hospital. But the relief in Dad’s eyes when I pulled into the driveway with all my belongings made it clear this was the right choice. Theonlychoice.
Seeing me grab my purse and sunglasses from the dining table, Mom asks with a warm smile, “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to help Cass out, remember?”
Crap.I knew as soon as the word slipped out that asking her if she remembered was stupid. The first bit of expression I’ve seen in her today disappears, eyes falling to my feet. “Right. Right, yes, of course.”
“Dad’s going to be home around lunchtime. Love you.”
I double-check the oven lock, straighten the large sheet of neon yellow paper with my phone number on the fridge, and lock the front door behind me. The alarm alerts my phone on the walk to the car, and I send Dad a text to let him know I’m heading out. So many little steps which often feel entirely unnecessary when Mom’s having a good day. But sometimes she leaves the house without knowing where she’s going. Or she turns the stove on and forgets about it. Or she asks me questions about things that happened a decade ago. Those days—where she doesn’t quite feel like my mom anymore—are the hardest.
—
I squint up at the wornWells Ranchsign hanging over the driveway. Once flanked by overgrown lilac bushes, the entrance is more clean-cut now, with manicured grass and tidy flowerbeds waiting to be planted.
Pulling into the ranch, I release a small sigh of relief when there are no cowboys in sight. It’s not that I want to avoid Denver, but…I want to avoid Denver. Cassidy’s on the front porch of the big house—the sprawling white farmhouse the Wells brothers grew up in, which is now where Jackson, his wife Kate, and their kids live.
Just my luck, my best friend had to fall in love and have a baby with an honorary Wells brother, then move to this ranch. A place filled with memories far beyond my high school boyfriend. His parents and siblings were a second family to me, and this ranch was home. My family’s never been the tight-knit kind you see on sitcoms, but the Wells family was. And I adored them.
Denver and I traipsed over every inch of their land, explored every nook in every outbuilding, kissed on the same stupid porch Cassidy and the other girls are sitting on. Now for the two months since moving back, I’ve been sneaking on and off the property to visit my baby niece almost daily. Unable to take a full breath from the moment my car rumbles across the cattle guard at the end of the driveway.
I step out into the warm spring air. It’s lightly perfumed by early floral buds, and my best friend has Hazel tucked against her chest, swaying gently in an old wooden rocking chair. Denver’s two sisters-in-law, Cecily and Kate, sit stretched out on the front steps with steaming mugs in their hands. I don’t know Cecily well yet, but I know if it were any later than eleven o’clock, Kate would be drinking something a lot stronger than coffee.
“Morning!” Kate’s daughter, Odessa, calls from whereshe’s sitting in a pile of topsoil with her little brother, Rhett. They’re playing with toy excavators and bulldozers, covered in dirt from head to toe.
“Hey, kiddos.” I steal glances in their direction for the entire walk up the footpath. Wondering how so much time has passed that Kate and Jackson—who were in full denial about being a couple back when I left Wells Canyon—havetwochildren now. It’s an uncanny reminder of how much time has passed.
Kate waves as I approach the house. “Perfect timing—a fresh pot just finished brewing.”
“Thanks. I need the caffeine to function,” I say, climbing the front porch stairs. “I have to head to the clinic pretty soon, and I’m getting a migraine from thinking about Dr. Brickham’s outdated filing system. I’ve been meaning to catalog it for weeks, but organizing isnotmy thing.”
“I keep telling you to let me come help.” Cass shakes her head in annoyance.
“With all the free time you have?”
“I can make the time.”
“Babe, don’t worry about it. I’m just complaining for the sake of complaining.” I softly shut the screen door behind me, careful not to wake the baby.
It’s surreal to be back in this house, and the strange tightening in my stomach isn’t helped by the fact that the kitchen is the only thing that’s changed over the past decade. What used to be firmly nineties style is now updated with modern wood cabinetry and quartz countertops. Otherwise, the same photos hang on the wall—with a few additions, of course. The same stair banister we’d grip to round the corner and fly up the stairs to the boys’ rooms when Denver and I were running away from his brothers—typically after pranking them. I can’t help but wonder how similar upstairs is. Obviously, the bedrooms have changed somewhat. Did they sand and stain the floors, or are there still scuffs from when Denny and I danced for hours?
My chest seizes, breathing choked with wistful nostalgia. If things had played out differently years ago, Denver and I could be the ones living in this house. It could be our kids playing outside. Our ranch, home, family.
“You okay, honey?” Beryl, the head of the ranch’s kitchen, pokes her head out from the pantry with a lilting smile.
“Oh, yeah.” My voice comes out thick with emotion, but I smile back and continue beyond the kitchen entryway to pour a cup of coffee. She watches me, not saying anything aloud because her expression does the job just fine.
I clear my throat. “Sometimes it’s weird being back here. It’s all so different and yet very much the same.”
“Mmmm, yes. I imagine so. We always expect time will change things, but sometimes that’s not the case.”
