The thrift shop in Sheridan smells like stale coffee, musty fabric, and the type of perfume seemingly only worn by women over the age of seventy. Racks of clothes are jammed together in a way that doesn’t exactly provide a nice flow for shopping, and you have to be on your A-game or you’ll trip over one of the many random toys, home goods, or pieces of furniture placed haphazardly around the store.
Mom’s busy juggling Fiona’s baby while the two women scour the sweater racks. And I find myself gravitating toward a section of the store I don’t usually pay any mind to: the jewelry cases. My eyes bounce over rings, necklaces, and bracelets before landing heavily on a small assortment of pins.
I remember my excitement about finding the raccoon pin at the fair, knowing it was going to bring the biggest smile to Whit’s face. After I stumbled out of the laundry room, heart straining against my rib cage and lungs burning with the need to scream, I dropped the pin and caramel apple on the kitchen counter. Blinking back tears, I faked a smile for Jonas’s sake and quietly slipped out of the house.
How was that merely days ago?
I lean in to look at the small collection containing mostly floral brooches. Nothing here screamsWhit,not that I know what I’d do even if I found the perfect pin for her. Buy it just to tuck away in a drawer, I guess. I’ve been naively hopefulthat she’ll come around after a few days apart—realize how silly she was to push me away when I made it so damn clear she’s all I want.
“Colt,” Mom calls from across the store.
With a ragged breath, I leave the pins behind and weave through rows of secondhand items. Eventually I turn a corner to find my mom thrusting a baby at me, and my cousin nowhere to be found. Dressed in a light pink sweatsuit, with her pants tucked into white socks, and a dainty white headband, the baby blinks at me. I blink back.
“I need to try on this sweater.” Mom jostles the baby, clearly indicating she’s wanting me to hold her. So I do. It’s awkward at first, but after a few seconds we settle into something that seems reasonably comfortable for both of us.
“Where’s Fiona?”Why isn’t she the one taking the baby from you?
Mom flails a hand toward the back of the store while sliding the garment off a plastic hanger with the other. “In the changing rooms trying on some things.”
I grunt to let Mom know I heard her, looking down at the chubby baby in my arms and trying to picture her being mine. I mean…notthis babyspecifically, because she belongs to my cousin. But like…picturing a different baby in my arms belonging to me. I squint at her, scrunching my nose. She’s cute enough, I suppose.
“Looks good on you, Colty.” Fiona slips between two racks of winter jackets, tossing an armful of clothes into our shopping cart. “When are you gonna have one?”
I wince. “Oh, well…”
“Beau’s too busy with his fancy country music career.” Fiona puts a hand on her hip. “I heard you have a girlfriend now. Your mom needs some grandbabies to spoil, so that’s on you.”
Bile rises in my throat, burning and choking me out. I’m tempted to throw the baby at my cousin and bolt. I look to mymom for backup, silently begging her to shut the conversation down.
Instead, Mom raps the back of her knuckles against Fiona’s arm, and the smile she shoots in my direction guts me. “They just started dating…. Though I’m sure Whit doesn’t want her kids to be much farther apart than they’d already be, so I bet it’s not too long now. I was pretty adamant that he take things slow, but since he didn’t listen to me about that…”
Fiona purses her lips. “In that case, try some reverse psychology. Colt, absolutelydon’tget that girl of yours pregnant.”
I exhale through gritted teeth.
Without knowing the pain she’s causing, Mom nods eagerly. “Oh, yes. I definitelydon’twant to be a grandma anytime soon.”
I’m such a fucking idiot.
I force my gaze toward the sidewalk outside the store, pretending to spot something interesting enough to distract from the way my throat feels torn to pieces. Mom’s still talking to Fiona about my future. About babies.About things I don’t want to rob her of.
My mother did so much more than simply give me life. She taught me to read, pulled me from bed at three a.m. for meteor showers, and shaped my brother and me into some pretty damn good men, despite our father’s constant absence. She deserved so much more from her life, and somehow still managed to give us the best of her.
I assured Whit I didn’t care about having kids of my own. And I meant it. Until seconds ago, I thought I simply had to wait for her to realize what she’d given up. I don’t think I understood whatIwas giving up before I heard my mom’s voice fill with excitement like that.
The life I promised Whit and the one my mom’s been hoping for all along are at odds. There’s no version of the futurewhere someone’s heart doesn’t break. And Ifucking hatethat I can’t immediately tell which will hurt me less.
• • •
Jonas adds another piece of wood to the full stack in his arms and, using his chin to keep it all from toppling, walks the few steps to the woodshed to neatly stack the split logs. It’s another dreary day, with gray swirling clouds overhead and a brisk nip in the air. The hydraulic log splitter does all the hard work, which means Jonas and I can split a few cords of wood by ourselves in a day.
Though chopping wood the old-fashioned way sounds like a good solution to clear my brain and work through the stubborn tension in my muscles, so I shut down the machine and grab an axe leaned up against the woodshed. It’s heavy in my hand, and I adjust my grip on the well-worn grooves in the wood handle for the short walk toward the wood pile. I kick a solid round with the side of my boot, pushing it over where I want it, and stand it on end for a splitting block. Then prop another round on top of it.
“Did you do 4-H when you were a kid?” Jonas drops another bundle of wood.
I glide my hands along the handle and lift it overhead. “Yeah. It was a lot of fun.”
The axe cuts through the crisp air, whooshing past my ear and biting into the log with a thud. The impact reverberates up into my hand, and it takes a bit of wiggling to free the splitting edge from its deep groove. Ever since I was a kid, the act of pulling an axe from the wood it’s wedged in always makes me picture myself as Arthur inThe Sword in the Stone.
