“Ketchup,” he mutters, doubling back for my sake. “Take a seat.”
I set the stack of picture frames into the box with the blankets, but before I can make it to the table, there’s a loud crash. Oakley’s plate is no longer on the tabletop but twirling on the ground, Bell sprinting out the open back door as Oakley himself whirls around.
“Belladonna!” he yells, full-naming the cow who’s streaking across the yard to the tinkling of her bell. A few pieces of scrambled egg are left in her path of destruction, but most of the food went into her mouth. Oakley turns to me, eyes wide, his hand held toward the door. “See?”
I bite my tongue as Oakley storms to the back of the house, continuing to call after the cow.
“It’s not too late to eat you, you know!Christ. My eggs, Bell? Really?”
“You’re not going to eat her,” I say calmly, sliding my plate into Oakley’s spot as he picks up the remnants of his own meal. When he opens his mouth like he’s about to argue, I give him a stern look and point to his chair. Only one of us is in a hurry, and it’s not me. “Sit. Eat your breakfast. I can make myself something else.”
He doesn’t fight me on it, plopping into the chair with a shake of his head. “How’s steak sound tonight?”
“We’re not eating the cow.”
Oakley grumbles, but he dutifully scarfs down his breakfast. I remake my own as he heads to his bedroom to change for work.
My phone pings as I’m sitting down. My daughter’s tone. I check it to find a text waiting for me.
Wendy: Is he coming?
A smile quirks my lips as I type back.
Me: Yeah. Oakley’scoming home.
It’s early evening when I hear Oakley’s truck in the driveway, the man returning from his last day of ranching here in Kansas. I finished packing most of his stuff while he was gone, barring the big pieces like furniture that we’ll need to move together.
He kicks his boots on the stoop before opening the door, his eyebrows bouncing up slightly when he sees me taping boxes in his living room. “Oh. You’re still here. I’d half wondered if this morning was a fever dream.”
“You’re perfectly well,” I assure him. “Want to head out tonight or wait for the morning?”
“Jesus,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he tosses his hat onto a stack of boxes. He looks around, likely seeing all the empty spaces his possessions occupied just earlier today. “Is this really happening?”
“It is.”
“Oh, ‘it is,’ he says.”
I ignore his tone. “Why don’t you take a shower while I plate up our food? I made pasta salad with some of the chicken in your freezer. Figured we should use it up.”
Oakley stares at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Lawson,” he says flatly, hands on his hips. “You realize you’re parenting me, right?”
“I am not.”
“Youare. First showing up the way you did and…making demands. And now you’re telling me when to shower? Wanna wash my back while you’re at it?”
“If you need me to.”
“If—” Oakley cuts off on a grunt, kicking his boots to the side before all but stomping down the hall. A few seconds later, I hear, “Did you pack up my goddamn sex toys?”
“Nothing to be ashamed about,” I call. “Sex is a perfectly healthy activity for a man your age.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
I chuckle to myself as a door slams, the shower turning on just after. I finish with the boxes I’m taping before following the noise and opening the bathroom door. “You never answered my question.”
