Arrogant Devil(54)

“It’s nothing.” He’s tugging on my arm, trying to get me to stand.

I know he’s just saying that to make me feel better. Andrew would be screaming his head off right now. I could tell the glasses were really nice when I got them out, and I’ll have to figure out a way to replace it.

“Meredith! Stop.”

His voice is gentle but direct as he bends down to hook his hands underneath my arms and lift me to my feet. He deposits me away from the mess just as another glass shatters at the head of the table. I jerk my attention toward Edith to see her hand still outstretched, having just finished tossing hers down as well.

“Grandma, what the hell?” Jack asks incredulously.

She shrugs, trying to be nonchalant, but I can see the emotion in her eyes, the empathy she feels for me in that moment. “What? There’s nothing special about those dusty old glasses. I’m glad to be rid of them, honestly. This yoga kick has been making me more mindful, less occupied with material possessions.”

We both stare at her, stunned silent. To Jack, she may as well be speaking Greek.

“Don’t believe me?”

She shrugs, casually reaching out and nudging Jack’s glass to the edge of the table.

He lurches forward and grabs it before it falls. “Jesus woman! I get it. Now can you throw the rest in the trash instead of flinging them around the whole damn ranch?”

I whip around and find the dustpan in the kitchen so I can get to work cleaning up the mess. Jack steals it out from under me and tells me to go sit down. His voice isn’t exactly harsh, but it still leaves no room for argument. I take a seat beside Edith and she tugs at my hand to take a look at it. There’s a small cut, but nothing that really needs attention. I close my palm quickly, wanting to hide the traces of my clumsiness. I’m embarrassed that I not only broke a glass but also had a weird flashback like that right in front of them. It’s not like I was in a war; I shouldn’t have PTSD.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, unable to meet her eyes.

“At my age, I don’t have to do anything,” she declares with her usual matter-of-fact tone. “I wanted to do that. Hell, I’ve been wanting to do that for years. Now, Jack, will you finish up and sit down so we can get back to dinner? This steak smells amazing and Alfred here is about to leap up and eat ’em if we don’t beat him to it.”

I try to get up to make new glasses of water for us, but she keeps me seated right beside her, insisting Jack can do it. He serves dinner as well, making sure to ask which of the steaks I want and heaping up a mountain of homegrown vegetables on my plate. I expect him to sit across from me, on the other side of Edith, but he takes the seat right beside me, so I’m sandwiched in between them. We don’t talk about the glass at all, even though I know they’re probably both wondering why I had the bizarre reaction that I did. Edith carries the conversation for the pair of us, but even so, I hardly listen.

By the time dinner is over, I’ve only eaten a quarter of the food on my plate and I’m ready to dart back to the shack and bury my face in my pillow. I want a few minutes of peace and quiet to process what the hell just happened and try to figure out how to stop it from ever happening again.

I finish loading the dishes in the dishwasher—a task neither of them could talk me out of—and then Jack finds me in the kitchen with some Neosporin and Band-Aids.

“Can I see your hands?” he asks, but it sounds more like a demand than a question.

I wave him off. “It’s nothing. I don’t think I need any of that.”

“I don’t believe you,” he says, his voice gruff and full of all the annoyance he harbors for me.

I hang the dish towel and offer up my best version of a reassuring smile. “I appreciate your concern.”

He ignores me, steps forward, and takes my hands in his, turning them palm up. I want to yank them away, but I don’t want to look like a petulant child. Besides, I’ve caused enough drama for one night.

He holds my hands like they’re delicate little birds, and the gentle touch cracks my chest wide open. There’s something about a man capable of such strength choosing tenderness instead. I can’t remember the last time Andrew touched me like this—I’m not sure he ever did.

“You’re right, it doesn’t look too bad,” he says, sounding relieved.

I nod and try to pretend my throat isn’t growing tighter.

I turn my head away and blink back tears.

Finally, he releases my hands, and I take the ointment and bandages from him with a quick nod of thanks. Then I’m out the back door as quick as my feet will take me.



The next day, Edith and I meet outside for our yoga session.

“You got something delivered this morning,” she says as we roll out our mats.

“Oh yeah? What was it?”

“Flowers from your ex-husband. Yellow roses.”

Wonderful. I guess he got the ranch’s address from Helen.

“You want me to trash them?” she asks.

“Yes please—or better yet, isn’t there a burn pile out back?”

“I brought the note that came with them in case you want to read it.” She’s holding out a tiny white envelope. I take it and rip it open. Now that my eyes are open to his insidiousness, the words are almost comedic. The same artfully contrived remorse that might’ve fooled me before rings utterly hollow now.