“Warner,” she croaks. My name sounds like sorrow, wrapped up in guilt and tied with a ribbon of apology.
I drop the kids’ bags at the gate and stride toward my truck. I want to say goodbye to Peyton and Charlie, but I can’t. I can’t fake it right now. Behind me I hear the metallic clang of the gate latch.
“Warner, wait.”
Her voice is a plea. My hand stalls on my door handle. This woman broke my heart two years ago when she left and didn’t come back, but I understood. Right now, I don’t understand.
Fuckinghope. That’s why I feel this way. I dared to hope.
“Warner.” Now my name is a whisper.
I turn around.
Tears run down her cheeks, but other than that, she looks as good as she did a few weeks ago. Behind Anna the black BMW comes sharply into focus, and suddenly I understand just why she is doing so well. She has someone else now. That’s why she sent me divorce papers. She hasn’t mentioned them since she sent them, but that doesn’t mean anything. What I hoped was a change of heart was actually just her treading lightly with me.
I stand there, waiting, my entire body trembling with anger, but Anna can’t seem to get any words out. She meets my eyes and blinks rapidly. As angry as I am, as badly as my heart is hurting, it still pains me to see how much this is hurting Anna. And that, in turn, angers me even more.
“My lawyer will send the signed papers to you on Monday.” I open the truck door and climb in.
“Warner.” Her voice breaks.
My forearm rests on the open window frame. “Do our kids know him?”
Her head shakes in tiny, rapid movements. “I was going to introduce them today. I’m planning to tell them he’s my friend.”
My face twists in what I know is a nasty look as I recall his lips on Anna. I look toward the gate, but he’s not there.
“He’s driving back down to Phoenix this afternoon.” Anna’s adding this information to subdue me, but it doesn’t help. I’m fucking floored.
I nod and bite the inside of my cheek, then start my truck and shift into drive. I don’t say goodbye, because as far as I’m concerned, at this moment there’s nothing more to be said.
We’re through. Now I finally get it.
* * *
I want a beer or seven.No matter that it’s ten in the morning. It’s a Saturday, it wouldn’t be totally depressing to start this early. I think I deserve it, seeing as how I just received confirmation my wife did, in fact, mean it when she served me with divorce papers.
Before I can retreat to my cabin and lick my wounds all weekend until it’s time to pick my kids up from Brock and Susan’s, I have to stop at the homestead and meet the actress. Wes just texted and said she’s there. I’m only five minutes away. I can probably be back in my cabin watching ESPN with a beer in my hand in under an hour.
I still can’t believe I was roped into showing this person the ways of ranch life. I’m positive she’s going to be a pain. The whole plan reeks of certain headache. She’ll hate the ranch. She’ll spend the whole time complaining about the smells, the dirt, the hard work, her shoes getting muddy, the muscle fatigue, the calluses, and on and on and on. I swear to God if she has on high heels, I’m going to tell Wes to shove this idea up his ass.
I take the turnoff, easing my truck beneath the big metal Hayden Cattle Company sign, and drive the half mile of dirt road to the homestead. I could veer off now and go home to my cabin, but I don’t. My anger has cooled to the point of simmering instead of boiling. I just have to fake it for a little while and I can go hide out for the remainder of the weekend.
There’s Wes’s truck, parked beside Wyatt’s. My mom and dad’s cars are parked on the side of the house, and beside them iswhat the actual fuck?
A green ’76 Bronco.
I slow to a stop, parking beside the vintage car. What is Morgan doing here? Is she the actress? Is that why I recognized her? No. I mean, she’s gorgeous enough, but wouldn’t she have said something? Maybe Morgan is the actress’s assistant? Which means that line about New Mexico was a lie.
The whole time I’m wondering all this, it’s not escaping my attention that for the first time in thirty minutes I’m not feeling excruciating pain. It’s…nice.
I get out and walk up to the Bronco. A dog is curled up in the passenger seat, asleep. Where in the world did Morgan get a dog? It looks up at me, apparently not so asleep, and lets out a low growl. I walk away, shaking my head at the bizarre events of a day that began just a few hours ago, and walk into my parents’ house.
I smell her before I see her, like I’m a goddamn bloodhound. Vanilla and flowers, minus the mango lip balm. I could still give it back to her. It never made it into the trash.
They’re in the living room. Her back is to me, so she doesn’t see me walk in. She sits on the couch beside Wyatt, and Dakota is on her other side. Wes and my parents sit on the couch across from them, and Gramps is asleep in the chair. Too bad Jessie isn’t here, she’s the one who was going on and on about a movie being filmed in Sierra Grande.
Mom meets my eyes. “There you are,” she says, smiling up at me. All eyes turn to me, including Morgan’s.
