Page 73 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

She has this way of seeing straight through people. Of calling it like she sees it, whether you want to hear it or not.

With me, it was the fact I’m my own worst enemy. Holding onto the past too tightly, or so she said. Apparently, I need to let Wade in if I want things to get better, and as much as it pains me to admit it, she’s right.

I gave her a hard time about it at first, responding with brooding silence. She just laughed, comparing me to Wade.

“Like father, like son,” she quipped.

She was doing way better than my therapist, because I do see it. We are similar in ways. Ways that have us both stuck in the past. I’m tired of it.

So, as I climb my way up the stairs, I decide that if Wade wants in, I'll crack the door open. One fuck-up though, and I will be slamming it right back in his face and never giving him the chance again. And that’s final.

At the top of the stairs, I stop. Close my eyes. Try to ground myself like my therapist taught me.

Feel the floor through my socks. Smell the lavender Mrs. Mae keeps in sachets upstairs mixed with whatever's cooking below. Breathe.

Instead, I laugh.

Laugh at the fact that Maeve isn’t here, and she's still steering me straight in this moment.

Makes me wonder what she has said to Wade. The two of them have this weird dynamic. Just constant back-and-forth pointless bickers, him being his usual grumpy asshole self and her not backing down an inch. And when they're not arguing, there's just this loaded silence that makes everyone else in the room suddenly very interested in their boots.

And yet, she still sticks up for him. Why? Because she sees the good in fucked-up people. In me. In Wade.

She doesn’t like leaving broken things alone, and me and Wade are definitely broken. It's probably her goal to mend things before she goes back home. Likely doing it for me, as we have spoken several times about what life was like before she came. Lonely. Depressing. Boring.

This stupid grounding technique is doing absolutely nothing. My brain has been going a million miles an hour all morning, and it just can’t settle on one thought before three more crash in. If I had to describe it, it'd be one of those detective pin boards—except none of my strings connect to anything. Just one big tangled mess I can't find the end of. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd know what I was looking at. My life used to make sense. Used to be predictable. Now I can't see two steps ahead, and that makes my heart hammer in a way I can't decide if it scares or excites me.

A laugh pulls me out of my own head. Low, coming from the office. I stand there for a second, trying to place it because, honestly, I'm not sure I've heard it since I was a kid.

I tiptoe closer, peeking around the doorframe without being seen.

Wade's in the desk chair, slouched down, staring at his phone. And he's… grinning?

I have to look twice.

This is a man who has two facial expressions—pissed off and more pissed off. So, what’s got him smiling like that?

I clear my throat.

Wade jumps like I just fired a gun, nearly dropping his phone.

“Jesus Christ, Colt.” His hand’s on his chest, breathing hard. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Didn't mean to interrupt whatever that was.” I gesture vaguely at him.

He puts his phone screen-down on the desk real quick and starts brushing at his shirt like it needs it.

“I wanted to talk to you about the riding school.” He's trying to smile, but it looks painful. “You got some time?”

This is so awkward I might actually die.

“Yeah, Mrs. Mae mentioned. Can I shower first? I'm pretty gross.” I lift my arms to make my point.

He nods and turns back to the computer. I grab clean clothes from the spare drawer and take the fastest shower the ensuite’s weak pressure will allow. Ten minutes later I’m back, towelling my hair as I drop in the chair across from him.

“Bring your chair over here, son.” He gestures to the space next to him. “Need to show you what's on the screen.”

Son. He hasn’t called me that in… Well, a long damn time. Hearing it now feels strange. Can't decide if it's a good or bad kind of strange. Let’s put that onto the growing list of things Doctor Palmer will be helping me unpack tomorrow.