Page 31 of Whiskey Proposal

“Thank you.” I take the save. I don’t have to go, but I don’t know Lane’s schedule, and I’ve been lucky so far. Figures the only thing my luck comes in clutch for is avoiding a hot guy. “I should probably get back and catch up on some work.”

I don’t have work either. I checked on my campaign results for the small, homemade chewing gum line that took a chance on me. Now if only they’d pay the rest of their invoice, I’d feel better about all the work I did. The wine start-up I helped get running hasn’t signed the contract for another year. They’ve been ghosting me entirely. But at least they paid.

I move closer to the steps. Feeling like a failure doesn’t pair well with this house. “I should go work on more pitches.”

“Pretty hard to approach companies when you’re in another state.”

“Not impossible,” I say in a chipper voice. “We live in an online world.”

He gives me a look that says he knows that might be true—for established marketing agencies. Some girl who kicked off on her own with no references because they all screwed her over doesn’t count.

I take the stairs down to the ground, breathing easier the farther away I get from the front door.

“You okay over there?” he asks.

“Yep. Just fine.” I take two more steps and spin around. “Did you know he has Dad’s truck? The old orange Chevy?”

Brooks thinks for a moment. He learned to drive in that thing, but it was like any other vehicle to him. He’s never mentioned it since, not like he did with the land and the ranch business. That part stayed in his blood. “That still runs?”

“I don’t know, I guess. Lane said he’s fixing it.”

He screws his face up. “Why?”

“Because he thinks it means something to me.” A lump forms in my throat, making it hard to swallow. I could’ve lied to Brooks. I hate to, and I usually don’t unless it’s to tell him I’m doing okay. But I need to get this out. The pressure gives me a headache. “I kind of lost my shit and insulted him when I found out.”

Brooks looks back at the front door before jumping down the stairs, his jaw tight. “Did he hurt you?”

I hurt myself. “No. We’re ignoring each other.”

He clenches and unclenches his jaw, thinking for a moment. “Stay here. I can get another bed.”

“Hey, there’s the luckiest girl in the world.”

“She didn’t want you either.”

“Sorry, Emerson. She thinks it’s for the best. We’re having a kid and it’s a small place.”

Memories and voices mix and mingle until they’re a tornado. “No. Thanks for the offer, but I can at least get through Lane’s front door.”

He nods once. Regret fills his eyes. Does he know that I’m remembering the last time I lived with him—and how it ended? “Okay.”

I give him a tight smile and start my walk to Lane’s. If I drove, the trip would be too quick. This way, I can see if Lane’s home and walk a little longer.

Yes. He is home. It’s early evening. The sun is sinking, but it’s still light out. So I keep going. I’m not stealthy about traipsing down the driveway that cuts through his land and buildings. I have that much pride. I’m not hiding from Lane and the terrible things I said. But I’m not ready to face him.

I wind around Lane’s property, but I’m probably still on it somewhat. Lady quits following me at what must be the line between what’s Lane and what’s his brother’s. Where there used to be nothing but open pasture dotted with random copses of trees, there’s now a rough path of wheel tracks.

The river spot must still be there. Does Lane go to the water to relax? Does he fish? Brooks and I tried when we were kids, but we never had much luck.

I keep going, staying in one of the wheel divots. The sound of birds increases the closer I get, and I catch a faint trickling of water.

What the hell is a picnic table doing here?

Guess that answers one question. Someone does come here regularly enough to need a place to sit and eat, but who?

I bypass the table and continue to the water’s edge. There’s another path through the trees, and then I’m in the clearing made by the banks of the river when it widens in the spring and after significant rainfall.

Breathing in a deep lungful of clean air, I relax in a way I haven’t for years. A bone-deep melting and an internal sigh that says, I’m home.