Overruled(86)

“What’s your problem, nervous and jerky?” Jake asks.

Brent opens his mouth like a fish searching for water. “I . . . just can’t wait to see the rest of the place! No time like the present. Let’s go!”

I bring my dishes to the sink and the four of us head toward the door.

“Bye, Brent,” Mary sings.

Brent waves uncomfortably, then whispers to me, “That’s it—I’m growing a f*cking beard.”

? ? ?

We spend the rest of the morning showing Jake and Brent around the ranch. Stanton is quiet—distracted.

Later in the afternoon, Stanton takes Brent and Jake out to the pastures to help his father with the clean-up. While they’re gone, Mrs. Shaw tells me we’ll be heading to the one local tavern for the evening and that I should get ready. The sun is setting when I step out of the bathroom, wearing my favorite red slip dress, to find that Stanton’s back. Waiting in my room.

And he’s alone.

He stares at me like it’s the first time he’s seeing me—long enough for a whole host of butterflies to dance in my stomach.

“You are beautiful,” he says in a low, awed voice with just a touch of southern.

Three words.

Such a simple compliment. But because it’s him—it feels like the most wonderful thing anyone could ever say to me.

The tavern is a small place, with wooden floors, a worn oak bar, a few scattered square tables, and two pool tables in the back room. Five of us sit together at a table—Jake is having a loud, raucous time with Ruby Monroe, Jenny’s sister, and Brent seems more relaxed without having to dodge the wandering, underage hands of Mary Shaw.

I excuse myself from the table and head to the ladies’ room. When I walk back out, I stop in my tracks. Because through the crowd I see Stanton rise from his chair and walk to the jukebox. He fills it with quarters from his pocket, and the twinkling sounds of piano keys override the noise of conversation in the crowded bar. He strides to where Jenny and JD are sitting side by side, and his lips move—asking a question I can’t decipher. JD nods his head and after a moment, shakes Stanton’s outstretched hand. Then Jenny stands and together they walk to the dance floor. Willie Nelson’s mournful voice fills the air singing “Always on My Mind.”

I watch as he takes Jenny in his arms—the strong, beautiful arms that have held me, made me feel cherished with their warmth. The arms I’ve gripped in pleasure and passion more times that I can remember. He gathers her close to his chest, the chest I laid my cheek on just last night, lulled to sleep by the sound of his steadfast heartbeat.

And together, they sway.

I don’t feel the tears rise until they’re blurring my vision and streaming down my face. My throat constricts, and the purest of pain squeezes my chest like a cruel vise.

I can’t do this anymore.

I know it now. I can’t stand by and pretend to help him fight for her.

Because I want him to fight for me.

More than anything.

For him to want me—not just as a friend or a lover. But as his forever.

Like she is.

Jenny looks up into his eyes. Their expressions are tender as they speak, and I thank God I can’t hear the words. Then Stanton raises his hand to touch her face . . . and I squeeze my eyes closed, blocking the intimate gesture.

A moment later I’m heading for the door. Self-preservation compels me, Willie’s lyrics of love and regret chase me, but I don’t look back.

Outside, the air is moist, thick—I gulp it in with pathetic hiccups and seek the comfort of my own arms, wrapped around my waist.

“Sofia?”

Brent’s voice approaches from my left, coming closer as he calls my name again. I don’t try to hide my . . . sadness? That’s not a strong enough word. Devastation hits the nail on the head. I feel like a building that’s about to collapse, the foundation I built, the structure and support that I thought would keep me standing falling away beneath my feet. And Brent sees it all.

His head angles in sympathetic reflection, but what strikes me most is—he’s not surprised. Not even a little.

He sits on the sidewalk bench and pats his lap. “Looks like somebody needs a ride on the therapy train. Hop on. Tell Dr. Brent all about it.”

There’s no shame as I perch myself on his thighs.

“He doesn’t dance,” I whisper.

Brent nods slowly. Waiting for me to continue.