Page 45 of Worth the Fight

Those words still sting. And I think she felt bad saying it, but it’s the truth.

“Damn,” Mags whispers.

“Yeah. It hurt, but she’s right. It’s weird. In some ways, I’m in such a routine it feels like I’ve been back for years. Those first six months are foggy. I missed out on so much, letting myself live like that. I missed out on time with you, seeing you rise to the top in your career. I look at my mom’s face now and can see how much she’s aged. My siblings are all grown up. I still carry a lot of guilt with me, too, but I try to look at it now and see what I’ve gained—better relationship with my family, my daughter, and I’m still working on your trust. But I had to get to my breaking point to realize it all. If you had quit ballet or taken a leave because you wanted to be with me, then you wouldn’t be where you are today. You wouldn’t have been pushed to your full potential, and Mags, you’re a principal ballerina. You’re living on your own in a foreign country.

“Everything happens for a reason, both good and bad. Everything shapes us into the person we were meant to be. Some lessons we don’t understand at the time, and some, like what happened to Collins, I don’t know if I’ll ever understand. But believing it all has a purpose is what keeps me going.”

She needed to end what we had because I don’t know if I would have ever sunk to my lowest, otherwise. I needed to hit rock bottom to finally realize how far I had fallen. And if we stayed together, there was the chance I would have taken her down with me.

“I can rest my head at night knowing that something good came from our breakup. You became stronger in a way because of it.”

There’s a silence on the line, and I wonder if she fell asleep on me, but then I hear her reluctant, “maybe,” and I smile.

“Just don’t keep hating me anymore, please.”

“Promise.”

The hum of a tractor engine sounds down the road, and I turn, seeing Dean pull into the drive. He parks the tractor against the side of the garage and hops off. I pause, and when I notice him start to head for his truck, and not the house to join the rest of us for lunch, I call out after him.

“Hey, Dean.” His head spins to mine. “Wait up.”

“I can let you go,” Magnolia says through a yawn.

“I think you need to get some sleep, baby.”

I don’t want to press my luck any more than I have these last twenty-four hours with her, but life is short, so I shoot my shot, anyway. “Any chance you’d let me come see you one of these days?”

“Oh. Uhhh…”

Her hesitation is all I need to hear. “No rush. I don’t need an answer right now.” I turn to make sure Dean is still standing idly, waiting for me. “Just think about it. I’d love to come and spend some time with you. But hey, I’ll let you go, Mags. Get a good night's sleep, all right?”

She yawns through another goodbye, and then I’m pocketing my phone, jogging the few paces toward Dean.

“Hey.” I gesture toward the main farmhouse with my head. “My mom made a full lunch spread, joining us?” He looks toward the farmhouse, and I can see the hesitation on his face. “Listen, no pressure man, but you’re sure as hell welcome. We aren’t asking just to ask. You’re welcome at the table anytime because we appreciate you.”

He sighs. “All right, I guess.” He raises his hands to look at his palms, dusting them over his dirty jeans. He’s sweating through his cotton tee, and there are flecks of grass and hay dusting his forearms. “I’m a mess, though.”

I look down at my own clothes. “We all are. Kind of to be expected. If you stink, no one will even notice because we all do.”

That thought seems to work on him, and I step toward the house, ushering him again with my head.

We take the front steps together, and I open the screen door, the hinges squeaking their hello. The smell of lunch cooking nearly smacks us in the face, and as if on command, my stomach grumbles. “My mom was going to make a roast chicken, I think.”

“Just for lunch?”

I kick off my boots on the front mat along with everyone else’s. “There are a lot of mouths to feed. She says it’s easier that way.” And she likes to cook for people.

I point to the half bathroom that sits under the stairs. “You can wash up in that bathroom, if you’d like. I’ll use the kitchen.” He nods, opening the door and peeking inside.

I keep moving down the hallway, turning into the dining room to see Pops already seated at the table. He sips a cup of steaming coffee as he peruses the paper. Gram comes from the kitchen with a platter of pickles, pickled beets, and carrot sticks in one hand, and a basket overflowing with rolls in the other.

She smiles at me, offering her cheek for a kiss, and I press a soft one to her weathered skin. “Sorry, I’m dirty.”

“My boys always are.”

I move past her and into the kitchen, beelining for the sink to scrub my hands and forearms to an acceptable level of clean. Leaning forward, I cup the tepid water in my palms and splash some on my face. I blindly reach for the nearest kitchen towel, water dripping off my skin, when my mom snatches it from my grasp.

“Now, I know you weren’t going to use one of my embroidered towels to wipe your face,” she teases, pressing it to her chest. She slides open a drawer to her side, rifling through it to pull out a worn brown one with some of the threads dangling. She tosses it to me, and it lands against my shoulder.