"There's nothing perfect about me," I say roughly. "You should know that before we go any further with this. I have PTSD. Nightmares. Tinnitus that comes and goes. I'm covered in scars that aren't pretty. I work too much and feel too little and I'm so fucking bad at talking about emotions that I hired a wife instead of just asking someone on a date like a normal person."
Claire looks at me steadily. "And I have a dead father, a mother who left when I was a baby, no money, no real job skills, and I'm so desperate for stability that I got on a bus to meet a stranger from the internet. We're both disasters, Rhett. That's kind of the point."
Something about the way she says it, so matter-of-fact, so devoid of self-pity, makes me want to laugh. Or cry. Maybe both.
"You want to come in?" she asks, gesturing to the cottage. "I know it's late, but I'm too wired to sleep. And if we're going to make this work, we should probably actually talk to each other. Learn more than just the basic facts."
"You sure?" I ask, even though everything in me wants to say yes. "You must be exhausted."
"I am. But I'm also sitting in a strange place surrounded by people who think they know me, about to marry a man I've spent maybe three hours with total. I think exhaustion is the least of my problems right now."
She has a point.
I follow her into the cottage, and she flips on a lamp that casts warm light over the small living room. The snack basket Sierra put together is half-empty. Claire must've eaten some while she was getting ready for dinner. The thought makes me irrationally happy. At least she wasn't too nervous to eat.
"You want tea or something?" she asks, moving toward the kitchenette. "I saw there's a kettle and some bags in the cabinet."
"Sure. Tea's good."
I settle on the couch while she fills the kettle and sets it to boil. It's strange, watching her move around the space like she already belongs here. She's curvy in a way that makes my hands itch to touch her, but more than that, there's something about her presence that feels... right. Like maybe this insane plan isn't completely insane after all.
Or maybe I'm just really good at convincing myself of things I want to believe.
"So," Claire says, bringing over two mugs and sitting in the armchair across from me instead of next to me on the couch.Keeping distance. Smart. "What do you actually want to know about me? And I'll answer honestly if you do the same."
"Deal," I say, wrapping my hands around the mug for warmth. "Okay. Tell me about your father. You said he died two years ago?"
Pain flashes across her face, but she doesn't look away. "Yeah. Heart attack. Sudden. He was only fifty-three. One day he was fine, the next day he was gone." She takes a sip of tea. "He raised me by himself after my mother left. Best man I ever knew. He worked construction, did everything he could to give me a good life. But after he died, I found out he had more debt than I realized. Medical bills from when I was a kid, credit cards he'd maxed out to keep me fed and clothed. The bank took the house. I had nothing."
"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it. "That's fucking rough."
"Yeah. It was. Still is." She looks down at her mug. "He used to make me watch old westerns with him. John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, all those classic films. He'd point at the ranches and say that's what real America looked like. Wide open spaces where you could breathe." She laughs softly. "I always thought he was being dramatic. But then I got here, and I saw those hills, and I finally understood what he meant."
"He sounds like a good man."
"He was. The best." She meets my eyes. "What about you? You said Frank took you in when you were sixteen?"
I take a breath, preparing to share things I don't usually talk about. But she was honest with me. I owe her the same.
"I was an orphan," I start. "Shuffled through foster homes from the time I was eight. I was... difficult. Angry. I didn’t trust anyone, didn't want to be part of anyone's family because I knewthey'd just give me back eventually. So, I acted out. Got into fights. Stole shit. Made it impossible for anyone to want to keep me."
Claire nods, not judging. Just listening.
"When I was sixteen, I ran away from my latest placement. It was raining, miserable. I was sitting at a bus stop, drenched and angry and convinced the world was shit. Then this old pickup truck pulls up, and Frank Delaney gets out. He didn't ask me a bunch of questions or try to give me some speech about how running away doesn't solve anything. He just said, 'You look cold. I've got hot food at my ranch if you want some.' And I was hungry enough to say yes."
"And he kept you?"
"Eventually. I worked at the ranch that summer, met the other guys Frank had taken in. Wade, Tucker, Mason, Boone, they were all misfits like me. Frank gave us purpose, taught us what it meant to work hard and be part of something bigger than ourselves. At the end of summer, when I tried to leave, he asked me to stay. Said he'd start the adoption paperwork if I wanted. Said I could be part of a real family." My voice cracks slightly. "No one had ever wanted to adopt me before."
"So, you stayed."
"I stayed. Best decision I ever made. Frank saved my life in ways I can't even explain. When he died..." I shake my head. "It broke something in me. All of us, really. But especially me. He was the only father I ever knew."
Claire sets down her mug and moves to the couch, sitting next to me this time. Not touching, but close. "I understand that. Losing the only parent you have... it's like losing your anchor. You're just drifting."
"Yeah. Exactly that."
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of our shared grief hanging between us.
