Catch Twenty-Two (Westover Prep 2)

Somehow, I managed to beat Rowdy to the property, but I don’t need him here to tell me what to do. I’ve been working this ranch for the better part of a year. If it weren’t for the abundance of work to be done, I could run this thing with my eyes closed. My reprieve only lasts half an hour before his over-priced truck pulls up.

Keeping my back toward the door, I line up the bags of feed, I’ll be distributing today. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t even want to see his face. He had a connection to Frankie I wish I had, and the brutal truth that I’m the one who ruined that beautiful girl is too much to face. Add in the pain of losing my dad, and I’d rather be anywhere but here.

“Hey, man.”

So much for keeping to myself today.

“Hey,” I grunt, praying that my irritated tone keeps him at a distance.

It doesn’t.

“Sorry about your dad.”

“Thanks,” I grumble, keeping my hands busy with the feed, hating that Mrs. Jacobson must have told him about my dad. It doesn’t keep my mind from racing, doesn’t keep my heart from squeezing like a rough fist is clenching it and holding it hostage.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” I snap.

I’ve never even pretended to like this guy, much less given him the impression that we’re friends enough to talk about such a great loss. I get where he’s coming from. Death is uncomfortable for everyone, but I’m not going to grab a tissue and sit down and have a heart-to-heart with the man who has effectively taken over Dad’s spot on the ranch.

“I understand.” I’m still not facing him, but I know if I turn around, I’ll see a genuine look of concern on his face. It’s another thing about Rowdy I hate. He’s a fucking nice guy, and no matter how bristly I’ve been to him, he always has a smile and a kind word. I imagine it’s what drew Frankie to him the moment he arrived. We’re polar opposites, and I can see why the only girl I’ve wanted, wants him.

She gave you something she’ll never be able to give another person.

I shake my head to rid it of those kinds of thoughts. I don’t need that night stuck in my head on instant replay any longer.

“But I’m here, if you need to talk,” he continues.

“Thanks,” I mutter. We both know that’s never going to happen. Hell, I bet he offered because he knew I’d never have that sort of conversation with him.

“I was hoping you could head into town and pick up the order I placed last week.”

I spin around. Facing the townspeople and their sad eyes is the very last thing I want to do.

“I’d rather stick around here,” I tell him.

His eyes search mine for answers when I don’t bother explaining why. He must understand because he simply nods his head and tells me he’ll be back in a while.

Relief washes over me when he walks back toward his truck. He could easily make me go. He’s the foreman after all, but true to form, being the nice guy that he is, he doesn’t.

I sigh, listening for his truck as it leaves the property, but the silence I was praying for is louder than a drum in my ears. I should’ve brought headphones, but I know music wouldn’t be able to drown out the thoughts running wildly in my head.

I spend the day alone because Rowdy begins his own tasks when he returns from picking up the supply order. The sun is dipping below the horizon by the time I look at my watch. I’m filthy, covered in grit and grime and all the other elements of a hard day’s work, but going home seems like a daunting task.

Mom is withdrawn and broken, only speaking in short sentences when I ask her something. She hasn’t left the house since the funeral, and I don’t think she has any intentions to do so anytime soon.

But I can’t avoid her. I have to make sure she eats even when she complains she isn’t hungry. I refuse to lose one parent to cancer and another to grief.

The porch light is off when I pull up in our driveway, another sign that Mom isn’t herself these days. Thinking I’ll find her curled up on the couch staring into space, I’m surprised to see her in the kitchen, dishing out some leftover casserole I brought home from Mrs. Jacobson’s yesterday.

“Did you have a good day?” she asks without taking her eyes from the plates in front of her. At least there’s two this time, letting me know she plans to eat or at least sit down with me and pretend as she pushes food around her plate.