Page 152 of Colt

“Are you giving me a golf clap?” I can only stare at him, slightly panicked and completely bewildered.

He shakes his head but continues to clap. “I’m giving you a holy-fuck-you-knocked-it-out-of-the-park clap. I don’t know which logo to pick because I love them all.”

Billie jumps to her feet. “Lainey, this deserves a standing ovation. I am obsessed.”

“Lai-ney,” Mack chants, standing too.

Then everyone is getting to their feet and chanting my name. Lai-ney. Lai-ney. Lai-ney.

I put a hand to my face, my eyes filling with tears all over again. “But I haven’t even gotten to the taglines yet! Or my ideas for the website pages! And the business cards and letterhead and merch and…well, everything else.”

But they just keep chanting my name.

I blush so furiously I must be the color of a tomato. I’ve been taught to never ever cry on the job. It’s unprofessional, and it makes everyone uncomfortable.

Up until now, I’ve stuck to that rule. But now—I don’t know, I’m wondering if there are no rules anymore.

I’m wondering if I get to make them up, since this is my presentation. My blood, sweat, and tears up there on the screen.

What if this is what work was meant to feel like all along?

I burst into tears. Putting a hand over my face, I wonder at my ability to smile and sob at the same time.

The clapping reaches a crescendo, and then everyone is hollering and whistling and just being all-around joyous. It feels like a holiday.

It feels like home.

“Y’all,” I manage when the room quiets a little bit. “Why—I mean, you didn’t have to… It’s just some logos.”

Paige comes over to wrap me in a hug. “It’s more than that, Lainey. It’s you capturing who we are in a beautiful way.”

But really, I need to stop crying. “Branding and marketing—they’re an art and a science. Same could be said about what y’all do too. Maybe that’s why I was able to, you know, capture the spirit of Double U.”

“I like that idea,” Colt says.

Fuck you, you perfect piece of cowboy ass.

Fuck you for making me fall head over heels in love with you.

Everyone sits so I can complete the presentation. When I do, I open up the floor for feedback.

I get a lot of it, which is awesome because it’s all hugely helpful.

Tate thinks the merch is an incredible opportunity, considering how on-trend everything Western is right now. Beck asks if I’d still be interested in doing the branding for the Homestead Hen. Dale surprises me and says he likes the logo with the script font. Paige likes the idea of having a “history” page on the website that goes into depth on Wallaces of the past. Billie asks if we can add a page to the site for her therapy program—a placeholder of sorts until we get her branding and site off the ground.

My hand cramps from scribbling page after page of notes, but I don’t care. This project is going to be a bear to complete. It will push me in ways I’ve never been pushed before. But the challenge really is a thrill.

Colt is the only one who doesn’t say anything. When the rest of his family is done sharing their thoughts, all eyes turn to him.

I expect—hope—he’ll say that he loved everything. Ten out of ten, no notes.

Leave it to him, though, to take it a step further.

“I’m sorry I was an ass to you, Lainey,” he begins, planting his hand on the table. “I meant to send you running, but I’m real fuckin’ glad you had the balls to stick around.”

“I did it out of spite, actually,” I reply, eyes welling for the hundredth time today. “No balls involved. Sorry, Dale, for the…ahem, vulgar innuendo.”

But Dale just laughs. “You could say I deal with balls for a living, so no worries.”