I leave the room to find him, wrapping my arms around myself against the slight chill in the air.
Warner is in the kitchen, a mixing bowl in one hand and a whisk in the other. Coffee percolates from a machine on the counter.
“Pancakes okay?” he asks, motioning to the bowl.
“Pancakes are perfect.” I hop onto the kitchen counter and look around. Warner’s cabin is similar to Wyatt’s, but larger. Where Wyatt’s cabin is sparse, Warner’s looks more like a home. A magnet keeps a list of spelling words held up to the fridge, kitchen gadgets compete for space on the countertop, a pair of boots with dirt caked to the edges next to the back door. I look back into the living room and see more proof that this is a home. A gaming console next to the television, framed pictures of Charlie and Peyton, a tie-dye hoodie haphazardly lying on the back of the couch.
And then I remember the books. “I think I figured out why you’re not a cinephile.”
“What’s your theory?” Warner asks, glancing over at me as he butters a pan.
“You’re a bibliophile instead.”
Warner finishes pouring batter into four rounds on the griddle. He sets the bowl on the counter, then comes to stand between my legs, resting his palms on my thighs. “It’s my thing. Reading. It gave me something to do when things with Anna started going downhill.”
Her name is a reminder that I know nothing about his marriage. His ex-wife. Or if what’s between us is ever going to amount to anything.
Warner walks away to check the pancakes. I watch as he flips them, lets them cook for another minute, then places them on a plate and pours more batter. He hands me the plate with the pancakes and pushes the syrup my way.
“Eat while they’re warm.”
I’m so hungry I eat every crumb on my plate. By the time I’m finished, Warner’s pancakes are ready. He eats leaning up against the counter. I get down and set my plate in the sink. Warner finishes too, stacking his plate on mine and grabbing two mugs. He fills them, then motions for me to follow him.
We walk into a room off the kitchen, about halfway to his bedroom.
“This is my office,” he says, striding behind a wooden desk. A laptop sits open on top, and a few different colored notebooks are scattered across the remaining space. Warner sweeps a hand in the air an inch above the notebooks. “Can you keep a secret?”
My head tilts, unsure of where he’s going with all this. “I like to think so.”
“I just finished my master’s degree. In English literature.”
The surprise makes me flinch. How have I been spending so much time with him and not known this by now? “English literature.” I nod slowly. “Warner, that’s great. I mean, you obviously love to read. Are you going to do something with the degree?”
Warner runs a hand through his hair. “I always wanted to be a college professor.” He glances at the bare wall to his left, like he’s envisioning a framed degree he feels belongs there. “I managed to get my bachelor’s before Wes left for the Army, and then my dad needed me here. And also, well, Anna…” Warner looks at me, his eyes probing, trying to read my thoughts. “Does it upset you to hear about her?”
I shake my head no, but it’s a lie. Maybe a little more like a fib. It’s natural not to love hearing about someone’s ex.
“Things just didn’t really go my way, I guess. Not that that’s a bad thing. I have a lot to show for the things that did go my way, and some other blessings that came from the unknown.” Warner rounds his desk and comes closer, but he stops short and sits back on the edge of his desk. “I heard about a spot opening up soon at the local community college.”
“Will you keep working for your family?”
Warner looks down, crossing one bare foot over the other. “I can’t be in two places at once, and ranching is a full-time commitment. There’s never a shortage of tasks.” He frowns as he speaks, and I wonder if he realizes it. “I’ll have to choose. Either the ranch, or what I love.”
“You don’t love ranching?”
“To a point. Not like Wes does.”
“But you’re so good at it.” Snippets of his lessons come back to me.
“Do you love what you’re good at?”
He has me there. This is my last film for a reason.
I reach for him, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Wes doesn’t know, does he?”
His hands run the length of my back and he buries his head into my neck as he shakes it back and forth.
“Your secret is safe with me,” I whisper into his hair.
