Closer obsessive inspection reveals the fence around the smaller paddock is sagging to the left and the larger paddock next to it has a few broken boards. The barn roof looks like it needs to be repaired on the south side, and some of the siding needs to be replaced, too. There’s so much to do on any given day that a lot gets tossed to the wayside. Mona helps as much as she can, but most of the physical work falls on me to get done.
My cell phone rings and the screen flashes a picture of sixteen-year-old me and Jessica at the now infamous Beyoncé concert. No other person I know would have the audacity to call at this hour.
“I have a bone to pick with you,” I tell her. No hellos. No preamble. Straight to business.
“You’re answering the phone? We’re making real progress.”
“Aidan Hughes’ brother showed up at the ranch today. Unannounced.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I blame you.”
“What’s he like?” she coos. “Cruella’s always creaming over him.”
“You haven’t met him?”
“No. He’s never come to any of Aidan’s premieres.”
Hitting pause on my sugar overload, I place the plate down and throw myself on the double bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling as I contemplate how to answer.
“Older than his brother––maybe thirty-six or seven––and pushy, with a touch of serial killer sprinkled in for funsies.”
“You had me at serial killer.”
It’s safe to say Jess and I have complete opposite taste in men.
“Not my jam at all but… he’s, you know, got that thing.”
“Which thing? There are so many things to choose from.”
Objectively speaking, the man is hot. I can do that, be honest about the guy’s physical gifts in spite of our less than friendly introduction. Was he obnoxious? Yes. Is he going to be a serious pain in my ass while he’s here? Undoubtedly. Am I attracted to him? Hell no. And yet…
“Big dick energy.”
“That’s my favorite thing. So Cruella was right.”
“I feel like I’m twelve when he looks at me. I literally regressed into a babbling, fidgeting mess in minutes.” An uncomfortable pressure builds in my chest. It feels like I swallowed broken glass, which requires immediate soothing, so I shovel another spoonful of Mona’s cake in my mouth. “Ith deprething.” There’s not much that makes me depressed, but learning that all the supposed work I’ve done on myself drops me without notice as quickly as it did all because of a man qualifies. “I thought I was a grown-up.”
“What was he doing there?”
“You don’t know?” I ask the very same person who got me into this situation.
“No.”
“He’s staying here––at the ranch. And from what I gathered from his long, hard stares and a handful of words, he’s here as his brother’s personal pit bull.”
“This sounds promising. Maybe you can get some shake ’n bake while he’s there.”
The eye roll this earns is nearly painful. “There will be no shake and bake.”
“Why not? Are you seeing anyone?”
“Yes. I am. And he’s very possessive of me.”
No. I’m not. Mostly because I’m still mourning the total destruction of my carefully-held beliefs. The ones Jaime torched with a flamethrower before he walked away.
I used to be a hopeful romantic. Finding out that the man who I thought was my knight in shining armor was a really a spineless fraud turned me into a cynic. That experience doesn’t exactly inspire me to run out and do it again. And when I say do it again, I mean invest all my emotions into another person who will inevitably ghost me when I need him most.
“Exciting. Anyone worth discussing?”
“I discuss him all the time. He’s on the short side with a missing eye. His name is Billy. He’s a dwarf goat––”
“You’re hopeless,” she says over me which makes me chuckle.
Probably.
“I’m officially on a man-fast,” I declare. Anything to discourage this conversation.
“Tried it. Bad idea. You get extra thirsty on those.”
“The timing’s not good now anyway. I’m too busy with the farm and the three-ring circus you dropped on my doorstep.”
“You’re almost thirty,” my best friend announces like it’s a terminal illness. “The timing is always right for someone your age. If we were in the middle of a nuclear Holocaust, the timing would still be right. In fact, we could be headed for an extinction level event and the timing for you would be perfect––”
“You sound more and more like your Tita every day,” I say, referring to her grandmother. “How is she?”
“Bugging me constantly about helping her manage her social media footprint. Her exact words. She has almost as many followers on Twitter as I do and gets DMs for dates, I shit you not.”
I laugh. “Did she ride you about your marital status?”
“Yes. Which is why I have a date tomorrow night.”
This is legitimately big news. Jess is super picky about who she dates.
“Really?”
“Really.”
A small pang of envy hits me. Jess hasn’t exactly cruised through life unscathed. She’s had her own share of trouble and has good reason to be gun shy. Or more precisely, guy shy. The only one she’s ever had feelings for used and cast her aside as quickly as yesterday’s trending news.
And yet after everything she’s been through, she’s still willing to get out there and give it another go. Maybe hope truly does spring eternal for some people.
“When I grow up, I wanna be just like you, Jessica Martinez. Who is this lucky dude?”
“Someone who’s going to get a big Netflix star to sign with me.”
She just threw cold water on my simmering excitement for her. Scratch that about her being hopeful. Mental note: plan an intervention for ruthless, career-obsessed BFF stat. “You’re hopeless.”
“Probably. But you’re no better. Back to Aidan Hughes’ brother. Think of him as part of your therapy––you can use him to scrub away the stain on humanity you almost married.”
Jess is not a fan of my ex. She never warmed up to Jaime in the first place. For the three years we were together, Jaime was Voldemort. Come to think of it, she’s been calling him that since we broke up. That and human garbage… and stain on humanity. Clearly, there’s no love lost there.
Thing is, by some unspoken agreement, we rarely, if ever, discussed him while Jaime and I were together. And even when we did, it was always in a superficial manner. Like we both knew that it had the potential to tear our friendship apart, so we pretended the problem didn’t exist. Now I wish we had argued about it. It could’ve potentially saved me a lot of wasted time and tears.
“Trust me, I’m not his type.”
The look on Shane Hughes’ face when I threw my body between his and the front door of my guesthouse was absolute proof. And to think I used to pride myself on being levelheaded in a moment of crisis. If he had a mixed opinion of me before, that moment cleared it right up. That and the stench of wet donkey rising off of me.