He snorts, almost choking. “No, I grow the watermelons or whatever Shayanne tells me to. She’s the genius in the kitchen. Has her own business now, a couple of them, actually. She makes goat milk soap with the supply from her herd and then has about a dozen recipes she makes seasonally. She sells all over town, to the resort, to folks in Great Falls, and she’s even shipping the non-perishable things out on special request. I’m just the delivery guy when she gets too busy to do it herself, which is damn near all the time.”
I scan my memories, finding an image of Shayanne. She must be around eleven or so, dirt-smudged on her freckled face as she hangs upside down in a tree by her knees, teasing Bruce and me. We were out on a walk on his family farm and she’d tagged along, not understanding our teenaged desire to be alone. “Guess Shayanne’s all grown up now, huh . . . guess we’re all grown up too.”
His mouth opens like he’s got something to say about that, and I’m already flinching as if it’s going to be a biting response, but Cooper comes sliding into the kitchen, saving me. “Coach B! I thought I heard voices! What are you doing here?” He’s excited and every word is a bit too loud.
Bruce smiles an actual teeth-flashing grin at my son, who doesn’t realize in the least what a gift that is. “Hey, Cooper! Just making farm deliveries, brought you some watermelon water.”
Cooper runs for the cabinet, grabbing a glass, and I hold myself back from helping as I watch him carefully pour himself some. He takes a big slug of it, not a care given to whether he might like the never-had-it-before flavor or not. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s pretty good! Where does this fall on the whoa-slow-go scale?”
I have zero idea what he’s talking about, but Bruce goes into coach mode before my very eyes. It’s a sight to behold as his stiff harshness with me melts into kindness. “Definitely a slow. The fruit’s good, but Shay adds a big dose of sugar syrup to it. And don’t drink your mom’s. Grown-ups sometimes like to add extra to theirs, and that’s a definite no for you.” He winks at Cooper, who’s eating this up as he bounces around like he just drank a Red Bull instead of one sip of sweet juice.
“Got it.” Cooper nods, taking mental notes on every word Bruce says. “Hey, you wanna stay for lunch? Mom’s making sandwiches, and you can have my strawberries if you want.” Cooper loves strawberries, so for him to offer them up is suspicious as hell. I eye my son, who looks innocent as a newborn angel. But I’m well aware of his scheming and genius-level gymnastics to get his way.
“Cooper, Bruce probably has other deliveries to make,” I say, trying to give Bruce an out. Or if I’m honest, myself an out. I don’t know if I can sit here with him in my kitchen like everything’s fine when it’s most definitely not fine at all.
I want to hate him. I want to love him. I want to kill him. I want to fuck him.
It’s too much. I shut down with the overwhelming litany rushing though my brain on a loop.
Bruce’s barest hint of a smirk dares me, though, a silent ‘challenge accepted’ passing between us. “Actually, a sandwich would be great. Mama Louise packed me a lunch, but I’m a growing boy, so an extra sandwich would be just right.” He rubs his hand over his flat stomach, making the cotton hug his rippling abs.
Is he doing that on purpose? Is he flirting or trying to drive me mad? My mouth feels like I just swallowed cotton, but it’s definitely the only thing dry around here.
My legs squirm, and I chug a solid drink of watermelon water, hoping it’ll cool me off a bit. But the smug satisfaction I see in Bruce’s expression tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
Asshole.
“Fine. Let me get everything together while you boys wash your hands.”
Cooper drags Bruce down the hall to the bathroom, and I wash my own hands in the sparkling clean kitchen sink before pulling out bread, chicken, cheese, mayo, and lettuce.
I can hear their voices down the hallway but can’t make out what they’re saying. Even the rumble of Bruce’s voice partnered with Cooper’s high-pitched, excited one makes me yearn for something I can’t define. It feels homey? Or like home, I realize with a shudder.
Nope, not doing that. Not even going to allow myself to pretend or play the ‘what if’ game because there’s no going back. There’s no ‘what if we hadn’t broken up?’ or ‘what if this was our life?’ or most painfully, ‘what if Cooper was Bruce’s son?’