Whiskey Moon

It’s the first he’s ever mentioned of me having kids. I always got the impression that the idea of me marrying and settling down made him uncomfortable for some reason. He loved that I was in New York focusing on my career, away from the small-town mindset of “conforming for the sole purpose of reproduction.”

When I was younger, I imagined myself married to Wyatt with a couple of kids. A boy and a girl. But once I started getting serious about pursuing a stage career and moving east, I placed that little daydream on a back burner and never gave it a second thought because it seemed to be off the table anyway.

I couldn’t marry a man who wouldn’t talk to me.

“I think I’m going to stick around another couple of weeks,” I change the subject.

“Have you made a decision about moving west?”

I loop my arm in his and exhale. “I’m leaning that way. Though sometimes I’m wondering if I missed my calling, you know? Maybe I’m supposed to be doing something else.”

He bristles. “I can’t imagine you doing anything else … but what’d you have in mind?”

“I don’t know … maybe I’m better suited for community theater? I’d love to run a playhouse in a medium-sized city somewhere. Who knows—maybe I’m better suited for directing and casting than commanding the stage.”

“Nonsense,” he says. “You were born to perform. Just like your mother.”

And there it is …

The narrative he’s been pushing on me my entire life.

Half the reason I left for New York was because I didn’t want to disappoint him. The other half was because I wanted to make Wyatt proud.

I maintain my composure. “I don’t think a pivot would be the worst thing.”

“A hundred grand on an acting degree begs to differ, Blaire,” he says with a chuckle, though he’s not joking.

“It’s hard to know what you want to do with your life when you’re eighteen. Not everyone nails it on the first try.”

We round the last corner, and our house grows closer with each step.

The last leg of our walk is hardened with stilted silence. Once we get inside, my father retreats to his study—slamming the door like a sulking man-child who didn’t get his way—and I say that with love. My father can be difficult to reason with at times, especially when he means well.

A framed picture falls off the wall, slamming into the hardwood floor and leaving a pool of shattered glass.

Odette peeks her head out from the living room.

“What’s all the fuss?” she asks before spotting the damage.

I head for the stairs. “Certain people around here are afraid of change.”

26

Wyatt

* * *

I’m loading the last of the salt blocks into the back of my truck Sunday afternoon when I turn to find Oliver Abbott pulling up in his jet-black Mercedes sedan. He parks at an angle, blocking me into my parking spot.

“Oliver,” I say, hiding my displeasure at seeing the stout bastard. “Isn’t every day I see you at the feed store.”

“What exactly are you doing, Wyatt?” He squeezes out of his car and rushes up to me red-faced and ripping his expensive sunglasses off his round head.

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that.” I close the gate of my truck.

“I know you’ve been spending time with Blaire,” he says.

I don’t ask how he found out. It was bound to happen. People love to talk in this town. That and there’s a chance Blaire could’ve brought it up in casual conversation. She’d have no reason not to. I’d thought about telling her to keep her visits with me on the down-low, but that would’ve only raised red flags and begged more questions.

“We had an understanding,” he keeps his voice low despite the fact that we’re the only ones out here. “An agreement.”

“I prefer to think of it as blackmail, but no need to split hairs.”

“I find it rather curious that you’re back in her life and all of a sudden she’s talking about leaving New York,” he says.

“Did she tell you why or are you just assuming she’s moving back for me?” I ask.

“Are you trying to suggest that I don’t know my own daughter?” He takes a step closer, but the portly asshole doesn’t intimidate me. He slides his sunglasses over his nose before returning to his idling import. “I’m only going to say it one last time: stay away from my daughter, Buchanan.”

He doesn’t add an “or else.”

He doesn’t have to.

He made the consequences crystal clear a decade ago.

27

Blaire

* * *

“So how’d you meet your husband anyway?” I ask Ivy Monday night over chips and salsa at La Fuente.

“Beau?” She bats her eyes, grinning like a crushing schoolgirl. “He was working the rodeo circuits in eastern Wyoming—he was a bull rider. Anyway, he came through here one night, and I happened to be there with a couple of friends. One of my friends knew one of his and we got to talking. Eventually he bought me a Coke and asked for my number. We’ve been together ever since.”