“He giving you trouble already?”
“No chance. He’s a doll.” I wink at Harvey, and we share a laugh before falling into an easy conversation.
I make Harvey and I each a piece of toast for breakfast, and he seems thoroughly amused by me making him breakfast. When we hit a natural lull in the conversation, I clean up and head out the front door to hop in my car.
For the hour that follows, I work out until sweat pours down my body. I swear it smells like cheap wine. But I don’t even care. My heart pumps blood out through my body, and I feel alive. I feel strong. The gym is quiet, and I monopolize a squat rack until my muscles burn and my legs shake.
And when I drive back through the front archway at Wishing Well Ranch, I feel substantially saner.
I breathe in the crisp morning air as I walk toward the sprawling house, admiring the way the frost on the dead grass has turned the landscape a sparkly white. Something that will melt away as soon as the bright prairie sun gets high enough in the bluebird sky.
When I head back into the kitchen to make another pot of coffee, Rhett is sitting at the table, looking as frosty as the grass.
“Good morning.” I smirk at him because he reminds me of a pouty teenager scrolling through his phone with a forced frown on his face.
He grunts. Eyes don’t even lift from his screen.
So, everything is going great.
“Who pissed in your Shreddies, Eaton?” I ask, unshaken by his sour attitude because there’s already coffee made, ready and waiting for me. It’s the little things in life.
“Everyone.”
I snort. “Sounds delicious.”
Rhett makes a growling noise and tosses his phone on the table hard enough that it slides almost down the full length. “Am I just a big joke to you? I just lost another sponsor. You think everything I’ve worked for these past ten years circling the toilet is funny?”
I turn and regard him. Obviously, we’re not doing the biting banter thing this morning. He’s truly downtrodden.
“I don’t find it remotely funny.”
He props his elbows on the table and drops his head into his hands, his mane of hair falling around his face like a curtain that hides whatever expression might be there right now.
A sigh shudders through my body, and I approach to pull out the chair next to him, rather than across from him. When I sit beside him, he still doesn’t look up. He’s clearly trying out some sort of deep breathing technique, based on the whoosh of air from his nostrils.
My clay mug clunks on the table as I reach out with my opposite hand toward the broad expanse of his back. I hesitate, my hand fluttering above his plain white t-shirt, because I seriously wonder if touching him is a good idea.
It’s a little like sticking your hand between the fence boards to pet a dog you don’t know. They might be a very good boy who loves attention. Or they might bite you.
But I’m an empath. A caretaker. I can see the disappointment emanating from him. A hug never fails to make me feel better, but I won’t hug him—mostly because I’d enjoy it far more than is professional. However, a gentle back pat never hurt anyone.
So, I drop my hand onto his shoulder. First, I give a squeeze, but he flinches and sucks in a deep breath, like he’s in pain.
I pull my hand away. But when his reaction ends there, and he doesn’t make any other moves to get away from me, I put my hand back, a little lower this time. Running it along the ridge of his shoulder blade through the fabric of his shirt.
I move my hand in a soft circle, the way my dad used to do to me when I was having a rough day. He’d sit in that chair beside my hospital bed and rub my back for hours. And he never complained.
“I was unwell as a teenager. I had a surgery that went wrong,” I say quietly, letting myself think back on that time. “I spent a lot of time in the hospital. I even spent some of that time thinking I’d never leave that hospital. So, I came up with a new way of looking at things. Are you interested in hearing the musings of an eternally optimistic teenager?”
“Sure.” His voice is tight as he pushes his palms harder into his forehead.
“If these were your last few moments on earth, would you go happy?”
His responding sigh is ragged. He clears his throat. “No.”
“But why? You have so much. You’ve achieved so much. No one’s life is perfect.”
He sits up straight now. Amber eyes regard me like I might not be the she-devil he took me for. “Have you googled my name? It’s all just,”—he huffs out a sad laugh—“stupid.”