Page 104 of Then You Happened
“Tate?” I call out as I move about looking for her.
“She ran up to the house,” Will says when I poke my head into the stable. He and Sylvester are sitting on the floor, backs against the wall, and a beer in their hand.
They look as exhausted as I feel.
“Pizza’s on the table,” I say. “I’m going to go bring Tate hers.”
The house is quiet when I enter. Tate’s boots are by the door, clumps of dried mud scattered around them.
“Tate?”
Gracie’s tail thumps somewhere, and when I step into the hall, I see her lying on the floor, looking at me with her head cocked, her eyes eager.
“Hi, girl,” I say as I walk toward her and am just about to call out for Tate again when she comes into view.
She’s sitting on her couch, arm propped on the side, hand under her chin, and completely sound asleep.
And fuck if my chest doesn’t constrict at the sight of her.
The dark fan of her lashes on her dirt-smudged cheeks. The curls of hair that have fallen out of her ponytail. Her full lips just slightly parted.
She’s busted her ass the past few days.
When I first showed up here, I wondered how this place had stayed afloat. I questioned how this pixie-sized woman could
be the one doing it.
Now I know she can.
Now I know she has the determination of a giant and the grit of a titan.
I’m not sure how long I stand watching her before I set the food down on the table. With her soft snores filling the house, I get Gracie some food and fresh water and take her out. I pick up the kitchen some and wash our coffee cups that were still sitting on the table from when we went over what was left to do before the delegation gets here.
Since when do I have cups of coffee with Tate as if we are a couple? When did that happen?
When I started spending most nights here, that’s when.
“Convenience,” I murmur, denying the truth to myself as well as the air around me.
It’s only when I go to let Gracie back in that I see Tate’s camera sitting on the table by the front door. I pick up the expensive piece of equipment with no other purpose than to put it in her studio so it doesn’t get knocked off by a rambunctious Gracie.
But when I walk into her office and set it next to its case, I’m stopped by the stack of black-and-white images sitting atop the workstation.
Fletcher’s face greets mine. His smile is wide, and his eyes are clear. There is a subtle dusting of freckles across his nose, and faint lines at the corners of his eyes.
The photo hits me like a sucker punch. The man who started all of this stares back at me, and I’m not sure how I feel about it, about him.
That’s a lie.
I feel in droves: hate, uncertainty, spite, jealousy that he had Tate first. So many emotions and yet I want to feel absolutely none of them.
Bastard.
I can’t bring myself to look away for the longest of times as I sort through them all and know it won’t do a damn bit of good to me if I do.
Liar.
None. Because I can’t confront him over what he’s done and I can’t make amends for the trail of hurt he left behind.
