Page 45 of Forget That Guy
I looked away from those tits, only to be caught by her powerful thighs as they gripped the horse between them.
“Earth to Mr. Windsor.”
I looked over at Jetty.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I asked if you wanted me to clean out any stalls today, or do you want me back out there running fence?”
I scrubbed at my face.
“The girls are doing the front pasture on their ride,” I said. “Holly already got to the stalls, too. Everything is in a pile right outside the barn door. You can go get all that up with the skid steer and dump it in the compost pile, though.”
Jetty was off moments later.
My mother rode up in the next moment on her golf cart.
“What are you doing?” I asked, eyeing the glass of sweet tea that she held out to me.
My mother was originally from the South, so she adopted some of their customs.
Like overly-sweet sweet tea in glass mason jars as a refresher when it was hot outside.
“Thanks,” I muttered. “Thought we talked about you not driving anymore?”
“That was before.”
“Before when?” I questioned.
“Before I decided that you were doing some interesting stuff over here and not telling me about it,” she said. “Plus, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“What interesting things am I doing?” I wondered.
“Hiring cute women to live in the apartment over the barn,” she said. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that Holly moved in.”
“Didn’t think it was necessary,” I hedged.
She snorted. “You’re reaching, and you know it. You used to tell me everything.”
I leaned against the golf cart and took a healthy swig of my tea before replying. “I’m not overly proud of how my life has turned out.”
“That wasn’t something that you had a part in, son,” my mother pointed out in her getting way too frail voice. “A marriage is supposed to be give and take. Some days, you give one hundred percent and they give nothing. Some days, they give ninety percent, and you give ten. Some days, it’s shared fifty-fifty. Saying that, she was fully capable of being an adult and telling you that you weren’t holding up your end with her. She could’ve shared that she was unhappy in a productive way.”
I grunted in reply.
“Your dad was my best friend,” she said softly. “I still get up every morning and smile. Reach for him on the other side of the bed, and get really sad when I remember he’s not here anymore.”
My throat constricted.
I missed my dad, too.
But I couldn’t imagine how my mother felt.
She wasn’t lying when she said that he was her best friend.
They’d done everything together from the second they’d found each other. They got married at within months of meeting. Had kids within a year—at least two of them anyway. They built a cattle business from the ground up. They raised three healthy, thriving children. They got to see their grandbabies be born.
They loved hard, fought little.
