"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, reaching for as many bags as possible. My body moves on autopilot as if this has become some sort of competition, while my mind returns to the challenges ahead.
The fingers on my left hand are turning bright red, but I still try to hook them around the next set of handles when a much larger hand wraps around them and another to match starts unraveling all the work I did trying to outdo him. I don't fight him.
"First official check-in night tonight," he says, catching me off guard. "I'll come over after dinner, help you get the kids settled, and then you and I can have our little meeting. I'll even take a few insults for the team if that will help relieve some of the tension for you."
"It's too soon to bother with a meeting. It's only been one day. I don't want to waste an evening on enduring your company for nothing," I snap back. It's more habit than anything. And it's a laughable argument given the amount of time we've spent together since I arrived, and the kids moved back into the house with me. Yes, he's technically living in the barn, but he's been at the house more often than not. For the kids. Always for the kids. Obviously. Which is why I tolerate him.
"It's not too soon," he counters, annoyingly ignoring my effort to bait him. "We've had to process a lot in the last week. And after tomorrow morning, after your first day back to the old routines for the kids, I'm guessing there's going to be a hell of a lot more."
He leans in toward me, a finger coming up to gently tap the side of my head. "I know that brain of yours is used to going round and round until you sort everything out on your own, but we're a team now. For better or worse, we're in this together for the next year. So instead of engaging in a mental merry-go-round of dizzying fear until you can see your way out, just tell me what's going on and we'll sort it out together."
I stare at him, unable to merge the man in front of me with the boy I've known and loathed for the last fourteen years. Then I catch sight of half the groceries sitting in a haphazard pile on the tailgate and remember he's still the same careless ass he always was. "You want me to work as a team? What about you? You don't know the first thing about considering another person in your actions.Look at what you did to our groceries trying to prove you could do it all on your own."
I swear he growls, lifting the hand I only now realize he's been holding the entire time. There's a deep red ridge set across my palm, a bruise already starting to form. "Never mind the fucking groceries. Look at what you did to your fucking hand."
JOVI
I did make a fucking mess of the bags. But I wouldn't have, if I hadn't noticed her reaching for every last bag in the cart. She just kept sliding one set of handles after the next over her hand until they started to cut off the blood flow to her fucking fingers. And she didn't even feel it, too caught up in whatever loop was running on repeat in her head.
She can deny it all she wants, but I know that look. Recognize the way she bites the inside of her left cheek. The way her eyes go a little wide, gaze a little distant. But the biggest fucking giveaway is the fact she stops breathing.
Used to freak me out when we were teenagers. And I only ever noticed because she'd take such a sudden deep breath in, I could hear the inhale. Then I'd start watching her chest. Waiting to see the steady rise and fall. And instead find the lack of movement.
At first, I thought I was being a paranoid creep, but then I started counting the seconds between breaths. They'd drag on. And on. Until that deep inhale hit. She'd get in a few breaths that seemed normal enough and then freeze her lungs all over again.
She's doing it now too. Or she was. Started inside the store, sometime after we ran into Brennan, and then peaked out here at thetruck. It's why I was in such a rush to get the damn groceries loaded up. I wanted to get us out of here. Back home. Back to where I could settle the kids and find a way to have a semi-private conversation with her.
"Your call, Liz," I tell her, stepping away from her to load up the last of our bags. "We can get home, do what needs to be done and have a scheduled sit-down in a private setting with no passersby or muggy heat urging us along, or we can do this right here, right now."
Her nose twitches and I know it pisses her off to no end that I've taken to bossing her around. Not that I get any particular kicks out of it. But treating her with a soft touch is never going to work. So here we are. Having a battle of wills in the fucking parking lot.
"Those are shit choices," she snaps.
"There's always option number three where I throw you over my shoulder, toss you in the truck and we drive out to the Hannigan's farm. Pretty sure my old fight cages are still set up in their back cattle pasture."
I smirk at her, nudging her to see the humor in my asinine suggestion. She doesn't. Instead, her expression darkens.
I frown. "I'm kidding."
Liz doesn't respond. Just grabs the now empty cart and pushes it back to the corral, before making her way to the driver's side door. I wait until she's inside, before I climb in too. "This isn't over."
"You can come over at eight," she says, tone flat. "I'll have the kids in bed by then."
She doesn't say a single word the entire drive home.
After I help get the kids out and unload the groceries, I head out to the barn. The horses are still turned out, several of them areantsy at the back gate connecting the main pasture to the back of the barn. None of them have been worked beyond a little basic exercise in weeks now.
I bring in the two mares most adamant about getting my attention and do my best to conjure the skills I haven't steadily practiced since high school.
Get to know them. Work with them. Learn with them.
When I finish up with the mares, I grab Kimber and take her for a ride along the property checking fence lines and waters as I go. By the time we get back to the barn, it's dusk and nearly every horse has found its way to the back gate.
Trent had a solid routine in place with them. They know when to expect dinner and breakfast, know which stalls are theirs. So, it doesn't take much to bring everyone in and start dumping feed—a mix he concocted himself—into their troughs.
Once everyone is grinding away their grains, I come through with hay, dropping a flake or two in each stall before I make a third round to check their waters. Each stall is equipped with an automated waterer, which is a huge time save given the amount of horses presently in my care.
Out of the thirty stalls, only three are currently unoccupied, and according to the calendar Trent kept that's a temporary vacancy.
