Page 13 of A Bittersweet Summer

“Would you tell me no?” she questions, her eyes wide the way they’d get when we were younger, and she’d wanted me to take the fall for whatever mischief she’d gotten into. Despite her best efforts, she usually got caught, anyway.

I don’t answer her, and Roe pops off the counter like a whack-a-mole.

“There’s a girl, isn’t there!” she nearly squeals. “Oh, Mom is going to be so happy. Has she met her yet?”

I down the glass of water and set the mason jar in the sink. “No girl.” And just to ensure she isn’t suspicious, I add “And you’re always welcome to stay here.”

Roe’s eyes narrow as if she doesn’t believe me. “What if there was a girl?” she asks. “Would I be welcome then?”

I lean against the sink, fingertips tapping the countertop as I cross one ankle over the other. “Sure thing,” I say, fighting the smile flirting with my lips. “But I’d move to the guest bedroom. That way, we’re on the ground floor for anyone with sensitive ears.”

“Ew!” she yells, the word coming from somewhere deep in her chest. Roe grabs her sandwich and takes a big bite before setting it back down and turning to the door. “Watch that,” she says around her food. “I’m going to let Mud in. Don’t let him eat the rest of my sandwich.”

“You’ll have to whistle for him,” I toss toward her retreating back. “Damn dog’s been out all afternoon.”

When the screen door slams, I look around at the dirt littered across the floor, the pile of nails next to the sink serving as a reminder of the incomplete projects around the house.

I’ve really fallen behind as of late.

Running my hand down my face, I heave out a sigh. Maybe Rosemary will be willing to help out a bit, after all.

Instead of starting another project, I opt for the electric kettle and a tea bag from one of the poorly abused cabinets. I even grab the lone lemon from the fridge.

Tea and a book after a long day’s worth of work.

Thirty never felt quite so old.

Adjusting the wire-framed glasses on my nose, I squint at the book in my hand.

I’m about halfway through some historical fiction masterpiece that I suddenly can’t bring myself to focus on or care about.

I peel the glasses from my face and close the book around an old receipt.

The tea on my nightstand has long since gone cold, but I pick it up and drink anyway, hoping the chamomile will lead me into a pleasant sleep before I have to get up and do it all again tomorrow.

When the sound of pans banging in the kitchen makes Roe’s presence known, I realize I have at least one midnight snack left before I’ll be able to fall asleep.

At least her muttered “shit,” after one particularly loud noise, tells me she’stryingto be considerate. Roe’s personality is just too big to be contained. She takes up space. And while I find myself somewhat irritated by how nosy she can be, deep down, I truly admire her for it.

I’ve always found myself hyperfocusing on being competent and capable. Rosemary is more preoccupied with being present and alive. It doesn’t matter what other people think of her if she gets to do something she loves.

Grabbing my phone from the charger, I busy myself by scrolling through a number of emails. My glasses now back on my face, I’m confronted with reminders of vet appointments,farrier bills, and client questions. When I see a particularly harrowing email listing Scarlett Lowell as a possible trainer for one of my clients' horses, I close out of the app entirely.

On a whim, I open up Instagram, fully recognizing how neglected my personal page must look to the public.

The last picture I posted was from over five years ago. I’m sitting with Walt and my parents. Roe’s there too, holding a glass of water up next to our raised beers.

She’d been nineteen at the time and was pissed she couldn’t drink to the passing of the farm with us.

I remember how much joy I’d felt that night—knowing all I’d worked toward was about to become a reality. It was two months later that our parents let us know about the divorce.

It kind of soured the whole deal.

Curiosity nips at the back of my neck, and I don’t know why I do it, but I find myself typing Cassidy’s name in the search bar.

I tell myself it’s extra screening—a second background check, really.

She’s easy to find. Her profile picture is her smiling at the camera, arms wrapped around a man who is certainlynotsmiling. In fact, he stares at the camera as if he’s irritated, the expression betrayed by the twinkle in his brown eyes—the inverse of the clear June sky shade of Cassidy’s.