I flick her lightly on her perfect, freckle dusted nose. The hazy look leaves her eyes and is replaced by one of surprise. “Well, maybe someday you’ll find out.”
And then I leave Winnie on the couch and saunter over to my room. I hear her say, “Idiot,” and then “Fucker” under her breath as I leave, and I can’t help but laugh.
Things in the Smith-Grant household just got a lot more fun.
Before I goto bed that night, I noodle around on my guitar like I normally do. I don’t play anything specific, just let my fingersgo where they will. It always helps me think, and tonight only my wife is on my mind.
Winnie and I shared a sexually charged moment together, but there’s something else going on as well. Earlier, when she offered to attend my mom’s scan with me for support, I think she actually meant it. And I almost immediately agreed. Only my better judgement and past experience had me telling her that I’d think about it.
When Jessica and I were together, it felt sure. Solid. I don’t know if either of us were in love, but we were on our way there. But Jess didn’t want to spend a single minute with me in the waiting room while my mom was in surgery. She barely even asked me how my mom was doing. She said it was too much for her to handle, and even though I might rationally understand that because cancer is rough, emotionally I just don’t get it. I’ve never left someone when they needed me most—not an injured, struggling horse, or a person who was hurting.
And now Winnie wants to do the things that Jessica couldn’t—she wants to support me. I only wish I was able to trust it. Because this marriage isn’t real and Winnie has reminded me multiple times that she doesn’t want it to be. She wants her freedom. And I get that—she’s twenty-six and she’s barely lived.
Despite all this, my chest aches with the sweet burn of hope. If I can’t have her for good, I’ll take whatever crumbs she gives me. That will be enough. It’ll have to be.
BARN BULLETIN
Remember everyone, it’s Friendsgiving at ours tonight. I’ll be cooking, but sides are appreciated. -Beau
No one else here can cook, though…Unless you want me to make boxed mac and cheese? Lila likes it. -Jenny
Last time I ate something you cooked, it gave me a stomach ache. -Candice
And last time you cooked, Candice, you lit the kitchen on fire. -Nathan
26
WINNIE
The next twoweeks pass by quickly. I spend every day helping out at the barn, working with Rosie. Candice obviously does most of the training, but I help where I can and I’m learning a lot. Once Rosie is ready, Candice is going to teach me how to ride.
Shelley has asked the court to dismiss my parents’ suit and we’re waiting to hear back from the judge. Even if we’re successful, I know that they won’t stop there. Every day I have a small kernel of anxiety in my stomach about them. It’s persistent and it never quite goes away, reminding me that even if I escaped, I’m still not free.
The temperature drops even further, and I find myself having to layer up more than I ever imagined possible. Jonah always has a fire going in the evenings, though, and it keeps us warm. We have a Friendsgiving celebration at the Wilson’s, and Jonah’s parents attend as well. His dad gives me a hug, and his mom makes polite conversation with me, which feels like a win. It’s my first time loading my plate up with whatever I want, and I almost die from how good Beau’s cooking is. I feel a small twinge of guilt over how much I eat, but I quickly wash that thought away with some mulled apple cider.
Currently, it’s the evening after, and I’m watching Jonah fiddle around with his guitar. He’s trying to finish writing a song, and I can tell he’s stuck somewhere on it. He keeps playing the same few bars over and over again, and his eyes are growing stormy with frustration.
“What’s this song for, anyways?” I ask him once he pauses strumming.
“I have nine songs I want to record, but the album should have at least ten. This is supposed to be the tenth.” He sets his guitar down and rubs his face in a gesture I’m starting to become fond of. “I can’t quite work out the melody, though. It’s missing something.”
“Play it for me again.” I give him an encouraging smile. “And sing some of the lyrics as well.”
“You’ve already heard it about twenty times.” He picks his guitar up again though, and starts strumming. He just hums along though, rather than singing. I guess he hasn’t decided on all of the words yet.
I watch his fingers attentively, admiring the way he plays, and wishing that I had been allowed to dedicate myself to an instrument in the way he clearly has. Sure, I can sing pretty well and play basic things on the piano, but I’ve always wanted to have more than one instrument at my disposal.
When Jonah gets to bridge, which is the part that is causing issues, I say, “Wait, stop there. Try this.” I hum the notes that I think will fit there, and then repeat it. “What about that? I think it fits with what comes after better. And this is in E, right?”
Jonah is staring at me with a surprised expression on his face, his eyes now clear and wide. He strums the chords again, and together we hum the melody I’ve just suggested together.
“Yeah, that will work. Really well, actually. How’d you do that?”
“I’ve listened to a lot of music.” I shrug.
“So have I,” he says. “But do you write?”
“No. I don’t understand that much music theory.” I wave my hand in the air. “But I have a good ear from singing so much.”
