The Romeo Arrangement

Letting Ridge give me a lift would be the smartest choice. I just hate becoming even more indebted to this man, who’s wrestling with his own demons aplenty if anything in those articles is true.

A few seconds later, one of the four garage doors on the house opens, making the decision for me. I hear the familiar growl of his truck.

When life gives you lemons…sometimes you just drink that damn lemonade with the biggest forced smile.

Minutes later, we’re in the truck and heading into town.

Despite the plows out yesterday, more snow drifted over in places with the overnight winds, just like Ridge suggested.

Instead of pointing it out, he asks about Dad, how long he’s been sick, and assures me that Tobin will be with him the whole time we’re gone.

I explain that it came on suddenly around December. We both thought it was a cold at first, and it’d go away in a week or two, but it lingered several months until the cough became almost crippling.

I mention the recent ER trip where he was diagnosed with a viral infection they couldn’t give him much for, not without a follow-up, and the suspected congestive heart failure.

I tell him I want to talk to the pharmacist about what might really help Dad, the best over-the-counter medication money can buy.

“While you’re doing that, I’ll hit the grocery store,” Ridge says, his hands tightening on the wheel. “Tobin made some suggestions. He needs more stuff for another round of chicken soup. Everything we grabbed the other day wasn’t enough to keep it coming.”

My heart sinks.

Again, his kindness crushes my soul, but we really, really can’t be staying here much longer.

“Thank you,” I say, fully meaning it.

I sincerely appreciate what he’s doing for us. Even though Dad is first and foremost on my mind, I can’t help but think about all the things I’d read about Ridge last night.

Troubled child actor who’s had multiple meltdowns over the years seems so flipping hard to believe.

That’s not who’s in the driver’s seat right now, eyes fixed sternly on the road, treating this supply run like it’s some kind of life-or-death mission.

Really, the man driving me into town doesn’t seem like an award-winning actor at all—just a normal guy in his truck.

A nice guy with searing good looks and shredded abs that were definitely too nice on the scale of ohhh to ahhh when I saw him with his shirt off.

Okay, so I’m probably talking out of my butt.

I’ve never known any actors. I’ve never done interviews. I’ve never so much as performed in a high school musical.

But Ridge Barnet seems shockingly down-to-earth.

Too genuine to ever walk out on a huge charity event for no good reason like that last article suggested. Certainly not the kinda man who’d snap over his mom’s death—more crass speculation by whoever threw together that hack piece.

I also wonder…what actually happened to Judy Barnet?

There wasn’t a chance to dive deep into the suicide case.

I just know, more often than not, real investigative journalism is a dying art.

Now things get posted online more for eyes and ad revenue than truth.

“So this is Dallas?” I wonder out loud, scanning over the cute little rows of storefronts as the truck enters what looks like the main drag.

Everything looks Christmas card perfect out here when it’s dusted in snow.

It’s almost idyllic, small-town Americana stamped into everything from the candy-cane-striped sign at the barber’s shop, to the little wooden airplane cut outs attached to the streetlamps with the town’s name painted on every single one.

Wait, airplanes?

“What’s up with that?” I point out the windshield.

“Huh?” Ridge needs a second to get what I’m gesturing at. “Oh, those. Yeah, that’s part of the local lore. This town wouldn’t exist without North Earhart Oil employing half the folks here. There was some drama a couple years back when old man Reed died and turned the company over to his daughter—but they’ve been established here for years. Business took off during the boom about ten years ago.”

“Earhart, like Amelia Earhart?”

“So they say. The old man who started the company swore she was a distant relative, but you want to start a shouting match at the Bobcat, just walk in some night and ask.” He looks over, flashing me a grin that should come with a wildfire warning. “The townies love to fight over it all the time. Especially when there’s booze involved. Hell, if you’re here long enough—”

“Oh, um, thanks but…I doubt we’ll have the time.” My face heats.

Looks like Dad isn’t the only man I need to let down easy. Eventually, we’ll have to leave, the sooner the better. That doesn’t leave time for fumbling around town.

“We’ve arrived. The pharmacy’s here and Filmore’s grocery store is just around the corner. I’ll grab the goods and meet you back here shortly, you dig?” Ridge asks as he pulls up next to the curb near the drugstore.