Colt:I think it actually fixed some issues I was already having
Colt:Pride’s been better, though
Future Wife:Your landing had pizzazz
Colt:Nothing like the razzle dazzle of a back flop
Colt:By the way, how do you feel about mustaches?
Future Wife:Are we talking Burt Reynolds or Michael Cera?
Colt:Is your answer different depending on which I choose?
Future Wife:Burt Reynolds’ 1972 centerfold?! I have nothing more to say.
Future Wife:Michael Cera’s pubestache? Call the police.
I stare wide-eyed and terrified at my bedroom ceiling. There’s no turning Colt Campbell into Burt Reynolds—not unless they make Rogaine for the entire body and I start a serious bulking workout plan. Though I’m not a godly man, you can bet your ass I’ll be praying nonstop for the next few days that my mustache isn’t anything Whit might compare topubes.
Whit
Whit:Jonas is sick, so he won’t be coming to the ranch today
Colt:Damn, poor kid.
Colt:Do you guys need anything?
Whit:I could use a tropical vacation, if you’re offering
Colt:I was thinking more along the lines of medicine or soup
Whit:I think we both just need a long nap
It’s been three full hours since Jonas last vomited, which is a much-needed win after a horrendous night. It turns out even the most badass ten-year-oldsreallywant their mommy when they wake up with a tummy ache at one o’clock in the morning. And in a greedy, selfish way, I was thrilled when he asked to sleep in my bed. I lay next to him, watching the flutter of his sleepy eyes, stroking his hair, and listening to him sleep for the most peaceful forty-five minutes of the last year.
Then all hell broke loose, and I spent the following forty-five minutes rubbing his back while he threw up his entire dinner. A further twenty stripping my soiled bedding and putting it into the wash, then remaking the bed with my spares. Armed with a puke bucket and a cold cloth, I held Jonas’sdroopy shoulders and steered him back to my bed. After accidentally making a mess of my backup sheets, we rerouted to his room, and I spent the rest of the night in a half-asleep state on his bedroom floor.
Grabbing my Kindle and a steaming cup of coffee, I slump into the couch and tuck a fluffy blanket tight around me. Sunlight filtered by my neighbor’s towering oak tree dances across the floor in scattered beams, and the first taste of dark roast on my tongue is absolutely decadent.
As soon as it was an acceptable hour to do so, I canceled my meetings and contacted my boss to let her know I was out for the day. Though technically I’m fine, my eyes are perpetually watery from exhaustion, and I can barely concentrate enough to read a spicy romance novel. I’m in no shape to cold-call prospective job candidates.
When I drag my weary body from the couch to pour a second cup, I detour upstairs to check on Jonas. A foul smell emanates through the sliver of open space in his doorway, and my face reflexively pulls into a tight grimace at the stench. The entire upstairs will need a deep clean once he’s feeling better. But for now, he’s tucked in a tiny ball in the middle of his bed, blankets pulled tight around his chin. After checking that he’s breathing and not running a fever, I carefully shut the door and get busy switching over the laundry.
With the loud thud of my dryer, I sink to the floor and stare at the frog figurine on the windowsill, muscle memory taking the reins in my brain fog. And it dawns on me that I haven’t crumpled onto this tile floor in weeks. Granted, that doesn’t mean I haven’t done laundry—I have a ten-year-old boy who’s been working on a ranch all summer, after all.
It also doesn’t mean I haven’t cried. But last time it was Colt who held me in his burly arms, calmed me with the drum in his chest.
There’s a new knocking sound. Frowning, I stand up and brush my hands over my sweatpants. I only love my noisydryer because it drowns out the sound of me crying while working fine. If it starts toactuallydie, I’ll be forced to get my dad to fix it.
When I shut off the machine, the dull tapping continues, and it’s not until I step into the hallway that I realize the sound is coming from my front door. It can’t be my sister or dad, because they both have keys and would stroll right in without question.
I creep into my office and do a weird, stealthy crouched shuffle across the carpet, lest whoever is out front decides to look up at the window. One quick peek above the windowsill is all it takes to spot the immediately recognizable truck parked outside.
Naturally, Colt has to bear witness to another awful moment in my life.
Looking at my reflection in the computer monitor’s black glare, my eyes shutter and I let out a groan. Sure, I’m not sick. But you wouldn’t know it by looking at me.
I shouldn’t care—lord knows I wouldn’t if it were Blair popping by with sickness supplies. But I catch myself reflexively combing my hair with my fingers. Still squatted, I reach onto my desk, thankful I have essentials tucked away for spur-of-the-moment virtual meetings. A scrunchie to pull my hair into a messy bun and a quick slathering of lip stain—which doubles as a decent blush. It doesn’t do anything to make up for the dark circles under my eyes, but I’m a tiny bit less troll-like.
