“Yeah.”
“You don’t name farm animals, Mira.”
“Is this a bad time to tell you that his middle name is Pigglesworth?”
He begins to crack a smile but stops short. Instead, he holds my gaze steadily. There isn’t any anger in his eyes over this whole ordeal. At worst, he’s slightly irritated with me. But he’ll give in because it’s what needs to be done … and I can’t decide if that makes me happy, or if it’s a sharp knife plunged into my heart.
We were five years old when we met. I wore a pink pair of sandals my mom bought me for the first day of kindergarten, and I loved them because I thought they made me the fastest runner at Sugar Creek Elementary. I was standing by the sand table when Hartley came up to me and complimented my shoes. I decided then that this guy was the coolest guy in the world—except for my dad, of course.
Our story started there and ended well before it should’ve. And that’s one of the great regrets of my life. But it’s also a circumstance that cannot be changed, and I’ve learned to accept that.
“Are you keeping that thing?” Cathy shouts, breaking our bubble.
Hartley’s gaze pulls from mine. “I’m as surprised about this as you are.”
Wincing, I peer over my shoulder. “It’s my fault, Cathy. Sorry.”
“Could’ve guessed that without asking.” She points a finger at me and grins. “This had your name written all over it, little girl.”
“I said I’m sorry.” I laugh. “It’s a long story.”
“Always is with you. Now you'd better make time to come by here and help me replant the garden your piggie just destroyed, or the next time I see you, there’ll be no pecan pie.”
I gasp. “You wouldn’t!”
She winks before disappearing inside Hartley’s house.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Bobby says, stopping in front of us. The pig squeals in his arms.
Bobby McIntyre is a bridge between the past and the present. Now in his fifties, Bobby used to work for Hartley’s dad, Ronnie, before he passed away. When Hartley took over, Bobby stayed by his side and helped him assume full control of the ranch. I always loved Bobby. He was fun, saved me from a snake, and pretended not to find the bottles of strawberry wine we hid in the loft of the old barn at the back of the property.
“How are you, Bobby?” I ask, starting to pet the pig. But, before I can make contact, it swings its snout toward me with a not-too-friendly oink as if it’s about to bite me.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of this thing?” Bobby asks, amused.
I make a face. “I’m not afraid of it. I just … I thought it would be softer. Cuddlier.”More grateful that I spared its life.
“You’ve read too many storybooks,” Hartley says.
I study Pigasso. The pleading look in his face last night isn’t the same one staring back at me this morning. I’m not really getting Wilbur fromCharlotte’s Webvibes anymore.
“Since you’re both here,” Oscar says, slamming the back of his truck closed. “I’ll consider this signed, sealed, and delivered.” He gives Hartley a wave, and an unnecessary—and totally unhelpful—chuckle, before climbing inside the cab and taking off down the driveway.
“What do you want me to do with this, boss?” Bobby asks.
“His name is Pigasso,” I say.
Bobby nods, pressing his lips together so he doesn’t laugh. “Pigasso. Got it.”
Hartley sighs, his gaze weighing heavily on the side of my face. And every second that passes with Bobby’s question unanswered feels like a lifetime because I know why he’s not responding. He’s waiting for me to answer a few questions first.
Crap. I take a deep breath and turn to him.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “In my more …soberstate today, I realized that not calling you before sending a pig to the ranch was a not-so-great idea. I can try to find an animal rescue, but it might take me a couple of days. Could you at least keep Pigasso until then?”
Bobby coughs back a laugh. “Want me to put it—Pigasso—in an empty stall for now?”
“Yeah,” Hartley says, his voice flat.
