"They hate me, Jo."
"Who hates you?" I push my feet into my Adidas sneakers. "I'll beat them up."
"Mom, for starters."
"I'll beat her up."
Travis laughs again. "She's tiny, but I think she might be scrappy."
"So she bites my ankles, who cares?" I'm probably the last person to ever get in a physical confrontation, but if the idea of it is making a hostile teenager smile, I'll let it roll. "Who else, Travis? Who else should meet the wrong end of my fist?"
"Henri."
"Well…" Henri clocks in upward of six feet tall and twice my weight. "MaybeI'llbe the one bitinghisankles."
This time, Travis doesn't laugh. I know it hurts, feeling like your parent doesn't like the person you're growing into. I'll never forget the dirty looks from my mother when I began to question the church’s motives and teachings, or the look of disgust on her face after everything happened, the way she cold-shouldered me.
"What happened?" I ask Travis. I'm marveling, in a sick and twisted way, that the same woman could manage to hurt both of us even when she's an entirely different person now.
"Why are you asking? Did that dumb guidance counselor call again?"
I stop what I'm doing and glance down at the phone, like I'm going to be able to see him even though it's just a regular call. "Mom emailed," I admit.
“She doesn’t even really care,” Travis bites out.
I stifle my sigh. "She cares in her own way." God, I'm tired of saying that to him. To myself.
"Mom's a bitch."
"You won't get any argument from me about that." I coax my hair into a ponytail and ask, "So why don't you tell me what happened?"
Travis blows out a noisy breath. "I cut school and she found out."
I'm careful to keep my groan safely tucked away in my throat. "Again? Why?" Now I'm wishing I'd FaceTimed Travis instead of calling him. I needed to get dressed though, and in the interest of not embarrassing myself or him, opted for the call.
"I didn't want to go to school."
I roll my eyes. "Well, yeah. Says every high schooler everywhere. Where did you go?"
"Nowhere."
I swipe my phone from the dresser and take it off speaker. I have ten minutes to get to The Bakery to claim a table and wait for Sawyer Bennett. "Travis, I have something to tell you, and I don't want you to mention it to Mom. I bought an old ranch and I'm fixing it up. When it's finished, you can come live with me again. If you want to, I mean. But," I say sternly when he gets excited. "No bullshit. I want you in school. No skipping class just so you can gonowhere."
"How long?" Travis asks. "How long before it's finished?"
"I'm in the process of figuring all that out."
By the time we get off the phone, Travis's voice sounds a whole lot less likeI hate everybody and everybody hates me,and a lot more optimistic.
I feel a little bit bad I didn't tell him what the purpose of the ranch will be. But only a little bit. If he knows ahead of time, he'll never come. The last thing Travis wants to be thought of is a delinquent, because he's not. Not really, anyway. He drew the short straw when it came to parentage. As did I.
I look in the mirror, square my shoulders, and head out of the house.
It's time for me to go snag an investor.
Like Jared said,I know immediately who Sawyer Bennett is.
He wears a navy blue suit like it was customized for his body. Underneath is a white shirt, no tie, hipster-cool socks peeking out from his leather tennis shoes. I can't imagine him lasting long in this town of blue-collar workers and ranchers, but stranger things have happened.
