The moment I step into the drawing room, I want to run away. This room is the one I hate the most. Every piece of furniture is dainty and looks like it’ll collapse if I so much as look at it wrong let alone sit on it.
Mom and Crystal look right at home sitting on chairs with floral patterns that make it look like it belongs in a castle and not a ranch in Nevada. I haven’t stepped foot into this room in a long time. I think the last time was because I was looking for a new bottle of Hammon Whiskey and figured I would find one in the bar.
I was right, the bottle was acquired, and I haven’t thought about the room since.
“Ford,” Mom’s tone is choreographed excitement and indulgence. I have no doubt it’s for Rosalie’s benefit because it certainly isn’t for mine. “It’s so wonderful to see you. Come, let me look at you.”
Even though I don’t want to, I stride across the room and land kisses in the air adjacent to both of her cheeks. Rosalie starts to serve the tea while I sit, as gingerly as possible, in the sturdiest looking chair. In this room, that’s not saying much since the legs are spindly and look like they could snap in two at any moment.
I certainly don’t shift my weight around in the chair. No, I don’t like this chair in the first place, I sure as fuck don’t want to have to replace it.
When I look at my sister, I hardly recognize her. She had brown hair when she lived at Sagebrush. Now, it’s dyed blonde and looks dry. It reminds me of tinder, and I can only hope she doesn’t get too close to an open flame.
Talk about a disaster.
“Crystal,” I greet her, trying to hold out a little hope that the sister I remember is still in there somewhere, “it’s good to see you. I hope you’re enjoying yourself in Tahoe.”
She smacks her gum and glances down at her nails before looking at me. The vapidness in her eyes guts me.
“Things are great. I’m dating a guy who works in finance in California. He was on a ski vacation when I met him. It was love at first sight.”
Mom beams at my sister like she just admitted to finding a cure for cancer before tittering, “You certainly snagged you a good one.” She looks at me and leans forward conspiratorially, “He’s making mid six figures and has room for advancement.”
I nod slowly, but it does nothing to help me process the conversation. Is that what she thinks love is?
It’s not the kind of love I ever want to find. I’ve always looked forward to finding love that lasts. One that will be there when the years are lean and the land holds back some of its treasures. One that will be there when life feels bountiful because it is. I’m not talking in terms of money, because ranch life is unpredictable, I’m talking about bounty where it counts.
Laughter filling the house. Sunset kisses and smiles over breakfast. My life being filled with love instead of loneliness.
That’s the kind of love I’ve been waiting for all my life.
When I first cooked up this vision in my head, I thought it was the kind of love, the kind of marriage, my parents had. Now, I’m not so sure. Maybe I was just looking at things through rose colored glasses.
I’m still waiting to find that love. Now, though, I’m not sure if it exists at all.
For some reason my faceless, nameless, letter writer comes to mind. It would be silly to love a woman I don’t even know.
But you do know her. You know her better than you know anyone.
The reality is that she’s not here. She’s choosing to remain a mystery.
And I’m still waiting.
I’ve never been in a relationship. The girls back in high school saw me as the future owner of Sagebrush Ranch. They saw bagging me as some sort of status symbol.
I sure as fuck wasn’t interested in that. It’s not like I had the time to date them either.
But without a girlfriend, or any interest in those girls, I find myself now a 25-year-old virgin. Thankfully, people don’t ask about my sexual habits and it’s something I’ve been able to keep to myself. I’m not sure I’m in any rush to change it either.
Unless Sunflower’s identity is revealed.
Keeping my voice neutral isn’t easy, but I manage as I tell Crystal, “I hope he makes you happy.”
She blinks at me a few times, like she doesn’t understand the words I said. And how fucking sad is that?
“That’s not why we’re here,” Mom interjects and I’m almost grateful for it.
“Okay, then why are you here?” I can’t help but ask the question, but I’m not sure I really want to know. When Rosalie hands me a cup of tea, I meet her gaze and mutter, “Thank you.” I look toward the women who have crashed into the middle of my day, “Are you ladies staying for dinner? Rosalie will need to know to plan accordingly.”
