Around me, everything is great. Maggie, Bill, and I handle the farm like we’ve always done it together this seamlessly. If you didn’t look closely, you’d never know how sad I am. But I’m devastated, and I did it to myself.
One phone call. I just need to see how he is. I hope he’s better than I am.
My hands quiver as I scoop out the coffee grounds, pouring them into the brew basket. I fill the machine with water and switch it on. As I wait, I pull out my phone for his number.
I love him and I somehow don’t have his number memorized. If you’re this messed up over somebody, shouldn’t you at least know their phone number by heart?
I pick up the cordless house phone and dial. It takes so long to ring that I wonder if I dialed it right.
But it doesn’t ring. It goes straight to voicemail, catching me off guard. It’s one of those combo robot and their voice messages, where their voice is suddenly too loud against the robot.Sorry,JAKE WARREN,is not available. At the tone, please record your message.
My voice cracks when I speak.
“Hey! Hi. It’s Darcy. I just wanted to check in and see if we could . . . catch up. I hope everything’s going good for you. Maybe we can chat and I can make you a bitter cup of coffee?” I hesitate, afraid to say something too sentimental. I don’t want to sway him either way. But I’m weak and I’ve been up all night, so I just spill it out anyway. “I miss you.”
My lips feel like sandpaper when I rub them together. “Hope to talk to you soon. If you want. No pressure if not. I l?—”
A beep announces that my time is up, and through all my rambling, I didn’t get to tell him I love him.
Maybe that’s better for both of us. I don’t want to try to sway him.
All’s quiet upstairs still, but the sound of gravel grinding hits my ears. Someone passing on the main road? But no, it draws closer.
The first drips of coffee smack the bottom of the pot when a flash of red goes past the window. A car door closes. Who the hell would be out here this early?
The farm truck is still outside, along with my car, covered in dust after a summer of not driving it.
I do what every sane person does when there’s an unknown intruder: I grab the rifle out of the mudroom. I keep it lowered as I creep through the house. Stormy’s already at the front door, going nuts. The inner door has a warped old window, and a figure is silhouetted in the low light.
Broad shoulders filling out a canvas jacket. A cowboy hat.
My steps speed up and I fling open the heavy wooden door, eyes rounding as I take in that dreamy guy who is the source of my every worry and fantasy.
He looks down at a fistful of pale white clover flowers, dwarfed by the size of his hand. His gaze is soft when it returns to me. “I know you’re upset, boss, but I’m not sure it’s worth shooting me over.”
“You’re here,” I whisper.
Now his lips curve upward in his signature fucking-with-you smirk. “I heard there’s a girl around these parts who makes the worst cup of coffee. Thought I’d come see what all the fuss is about.”
Stormy meows at me and headbutts the door, pissed I haven’t opened it yet. I flip the gun’s safety and open the screen door long enough for Stormy to go to her beloved. Jake’s face falls as I turn back into the house.
I rush to put the gun back, then grab a second mug in the kitchen. The pot’s finished now, and I pour us each a cup, sprinkling a little sugar in Jake’s.
Through the screen door, I catch him nestling his cheek against the top of Stormy’s head, having already scooped her up. Barkley’s next to him, begging for pets too. “You my good little kitty?”
The man’s whispering sweet nothings to my cat. She’s eating it up.
I’m eating it up. My stomach is twisted tighter than a garlic knot. I hip open the door and hold out a mug for Jake. “World’s best cup of coffee?”
He lifts a brow and offers the fistful of little wildflowers. “If you say so.”
I take them, knowing those flowers don’t last and he must have just picked them out of the grass. He stoops to put Stormy back on the ground, patting Barkley quickly before taking the mug from me and sitting on his usual step. He sits sideways, one leg straight out in front of him and the other bent to hold him on the step, leaning back against the banister. I set my coffee by my usual spot on the top step and grab the quilt from the porch swing. As I sit, Jake leans forward to wrap it around my shoulders. His eyes move over my clothes.
“Pretty dress.”
I snort. “Thanks. Rob used to make fun of it. Called it ‘Meemaw’s Dressing Gown.’”
Jake rolls his eyes. “If this is what you look like as a meemaw, he should have been thanking his lucky stars.” His gaze steels. “You’re beautiful.”
