We zigzag from one topic to another, and as Chase and Jake descend into fits of giggles with Madison over a story about their dad falling in a puddle of mud they’d made with the hose as kids, I can’t help but compare it to the dinners at my parents’ house. Polite conversations that always loop back to the hospital and their patients. My family never means to exclude me—it’s just that their world is so different from mine. At least once during those dinners, someone—usually my brother, David—will steer the conversation toward my work on Bill’s ranch. But their eyes will glaze over fast.
Whatever wildness lives in Bill’s blood, the thing that made him save every spare cent he had to buy a patch of land near Shamrock and build a horse ranch from scratch, it skipped a generation. His son—my dad—chose hospitals and air conditioning over open land and dirt. Dad always talks about growing up in a tiny apartment above a bakery in Northglenn, only moving to the ranch when his parents finally had the money saved when my dad was seven. Dad’s ranch stories are of the hard years—when the bills piled up, and the bank kept circling like vultures. That struggle pushed him into med school, andinto a life of white coats and neat routines. I respect it. But I never wanted it.
I grew up in a house where everything had its place, including me. My parents’ love felt like it came wrapped in expectations. Straight As. College. Med school. But summers spent on Bill’s ranch while my brother and sister went to camp—that was freedom. I’d brush down the horses for hours, throw myself into every job, and fall asleep with a smile on my face. It was the only time I ever felt like myself growing up.
Working for Bill for the last eight years felt as easy as those summers. We never needed small talk. We’d pile sandwiches high with whatever we had, head out to the porch steps, and talk through the work still ahead. I love my family, but they understand my world about as well as I understand theirs. And when those summers ended as a kid and I went back to the city, it felt like a part of me was being locked away. This right here—the Sullivans with their noise and laughter and teasing—is a different kind of family.
I’m pulled back to the table by Madison tugging at Dylan’s tee, where the material stretches over his bicep. “Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks, her tone casual, like she’s asking him if he wants dessert.
For some reason, the question causes a wave of heat to creep up my neck and my thoughts to flash to our kiss. I take a slow sip of water, grateful for the distraction of Chase’s laughter. “That would require Dylan to talk to women,” he says, his grin wicked.
“That Sullivan charm is in there somewhere, Dyl,” Jake throws out.
“Buried under a mountain of grump,” Chase finishes.
Dylan’s glare sweeps the table, and they bite back their laughter, shoulders shaking silently as Dylan turns to Mad. He isn’t laughing, but he isn’t angry either. “Ignore them,” he says.
Madison doesn’t miss a beat. “My daddy has lots of girlfriends,” she says in the matter-of-fact way she does that never fails to make me both insanely proud and also want to bury my head in my hands. “I can ask him if he can give one to you, if you want.”
“I’ll be fine, but thank you, Mad,” Dylan replies, and just for a second I think I catch the ghost of a smile. Our eyes lock and something else passes between us.
“That’s probably best.” Madison nods earnestly, completely oblivious to how the air is suddenly charged in a way I didn’t expect and sure as hell don’t want. “Unless you can sing. My daddy’s girlfriends like him because he’s a country singer.”
“Anyone we know?” Harper asks.
Pride shines in Madison’s bright eyes. A well-worn pain surfaces, the kind that twists like a knife. I hope she never realizes what a lousy excuse for a dad Hooper is.
“He’s Hooper Greene,” Madison announces.
My ex-husband’s name causes a collective gasp around the table. Of all the promises Hooper made when he dropped to one knee when I was eighteen and pregnant, him becoming a star was the only one he kept—and the least important, it turned out.
“He travels all around the country. He said he’ll take me with him one day,” Madison explains, her small hands gesturing animatedly as she talks.
I stay quiet, keeping my expression neutral. Hooper gets to flit in and out of her life whenever it’s convenient for him, leaving me to pick up the pieces of broken promises.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m messing this whole parenting thing up. Madison says she loves our trailer—calls it a cozy space just for us. And I try to believe that’s enough. It gave us our own place at Bill’s ranch once Mad started walking, and it meant we weren’t imposing every time he wanted to watch his war documentaries instead of the tenth rerun of whatever Disneymovie Mad was currently obsessed with. But still, I worry that a tiny trailer, no matter how filled with love and laughter, isn’t the kind of stable home she deserves, especially when we’ve spent this past year so unsure of what the future holds.
I watch Madison now, stroking Buck’s head beneath the table. She skipped through every task today like she belongs on a ranch as much as I do. I silently will her not to fall in love with this ranch or these people. Because in five weeks we’ll be gone.
Assuming Dylan doesn’t pull his head out of his ass and sell the horses before then.
I miss Mad like crazy during the week when she’s off at Hooper’s parents’ summer camp—spending the days swimming and playing with friends. I know she’s safe and happy, but the quiet of the summer weeks eats at a part of my soul. It’s easier during the school year. I count the hours until she jumps off that yellow school bus, and Mad tells me about her day as we cook dinner together.
“I don’t get to see him much,” Mad adds, still talking about Hooper. A sadness creeps into her voice that cracks open my heart.
“Well, that sounds a lot like he’s missing out,” Dylan says, the sincerity in his voice throwing me off balance.
Mama nods, her warm smile spreading across her face as she looks down the table at her boys. “Families aren’t just the people you’re born into. They’re who you choose. Who you show up for. And who shows up for you.”
“I don’t know, Mama,” Chase says, voice teasing. “If Dylan keeps up his terrible excuse for ranching skills, we might need to audition for a replacement brother before he brings down the Sullivan name.”
Across the table, Jake cracks up, and maybe it’s the kind words Dylan had for Madison just now—or a temporary lapse in judgment—but before I can stop myself, I’m stepping in. Not todefend Dylan exactly. He’s still a grumpy, unreliable pain in my ass.
I flash my sweetest smile. “Sounds a lot like you boys think you could do better. Why don’t you both join me at five tomorrow morning and we’ll see how long you last? I mean, unless you’re scared of getting your hands dirty and seeing what a real day’s work looks like?”
The table falls quiet. I catch Dylan’s head jerk up, his eyes flicking to mine with something like disbelief in their dark depths—maybe even gratitude.
Jake’s laugh breaks the silence. He shakes his head, raising his hands in surrender. “Fair point, Izzy. And thanks, but I’ll leave the ranching to the two of you.”
