The Hookup (Moonlight and Motor Oil #1)(53)

I hit my stables, went through the gate, latched it behind me and set about feeding my horses.

I was dog-tired. I’d slept even less the night before. Still hungover but mostly sick to my stomach about what had happened, not to mention the whole town (well, some of it) witnessing it. Thinking it was not (exactly) what it was. Not knowing I hadn’t let myself get in too deep (though, if I was honest, I had). Thinking I was just another one who’d fallen hard then gotten burned in the aftermath of Johnny and Shandra.

The last one, but still.

I’d be the object of compassion, I was sure. And that would not be fun, seeing as it would serve as a reminder of what had happened whenever I’d hit Macy’s Flower Shop or the grocery store, or if I ever (which I probably wouldn’t, at least for a while) hit Home again.

But I’d endure.

I’d get through it.

I’d get over it.

And I’d carry on.

Like my mom, in the many and varied ways life could bring me to my knees, I was just going to get back up and keep going.

Mostly because I had no choice.

After I fed my babies, I decided to check supplies of feed and hay. I always carefully calculated the needs of both, because I bought in bulk due to the discount I could get and also bought them both at the same time due to the fact the feed store delivered at a flat rate no matter how much you ordered.

I was low on feed but had plenty of hay.

I could stack extra outside and put a tarp around it, use it first so I didn’t have to haul it in and put in the hay room only to haul it back out again for the horses.

After closing the door on the hay room, I turned to go to Serengeti to see if she was finished eating and ready to head out to her paddock and stopped dead.

Johnny was standing inside the closed gate, his eyes locked to me.

This could not happen and it could not happen for a number or reasons.

First, I couldn’t deal with it. Not then. I needed at least a whole day, more like a hundred of them.

Second, this wasn’t fair. I knew he wanted to do right by me, let me down easy, explain his head was messed up and that was why he was leading me on, try to make me understand in order to make himself feel better while doing it.

But it was my thought in this particular scenario that I got to pick the time that would happen, if it happened at all.

And last, in a fit of heartbroken stupidity I refused to allow myself to dwell on considering it had only been three dinners, two breakfasts, several phone and text conversations but not years of togetherness and a path of broken promises, I’d gone to bed wearing the T-shirt he’d given me.

Therefore right then I was standing before him wearing that tee, an old, threadbare pair of men’s pajama bottoms that I’d cut off at the knees and pulled on to go to the stables, and my wellies.

My hair was a mess.

And I knew I had to look fatigued and perhaps was wearing my heart on my (actually his) sleeve.

So this wasn’t just too soon and unfair.

It was a disaster.

I tore my eyes from him, immediately started moving to the tack room for reasons unknown since I didn’t have to go to the tack room, I had to go to Serengeti, doing this shaking my head and talking.

“You don’t have to do this, Johnny.”

I sensed him on the move but didn’t look at him.

“Izzy, I need you to listen to me.”

I kept shaking my head at the same time averting it. “It’s okay. I get it. You know I get it. You don’t have to do this.”

“Iz, baby, stop for a second and listen to me.”

I hit the door to the tack room, stopped and twisted only slightly to allow myself to look at his chest, a view I had because he’d gotten close.

He had a new tee on today, blue that had a faded American flag all in white on the front.

It was fabulous.

“Honestly, it’s okay. I’m fine. I expected that to happen,” I told him, though I didn’t expect to have to witness it.

“What to happen?” he asked.

I ignored that.

“And I’m still good with Mist coming here, if you are. I’ll go get him though and take care of him. It won’t be hard. Don’t worry. Just text me the address. I know someone who’ll let me use their horse trailer and Charlie has a truck that can haul.”

“Iz—”

“Thanks for coming, Johnny.” I started to open the door to the tack room. “It was sweet.” I lifted my eyes to his bearded chin and wanted to kick myself because my voice was starting to sound husky when I finished, “Be happy.”

I was going to disappear through the door but I didn’t.

The door that I’d opened nary three inches was slammed shut in front of me, and then I was turned around with a hand on my upper arm and I found myself backed up against the wooden wall to the tack room with a hand in my belly.

I looked up at Johnny.

He was angry.

I felt my wounded heart start beating rapidly.

“Need you to shut up, baby, and listen to me,” he growled.

“You really don’t have to do this,” I whispered.

“You really do have to shut up,” he returned sharply.

I stared into his angry eyes.

He was telling me to shut up.

And he was angry.

He was invading my land, my stables, my space with the driving bent to do the right thing and not thinking how I might feel, and he was getting angry that I wouldn’t let him.