Page 20 of Then You Happened
Determination unwavering.
4
TATE
I’m being ridiculous.
I need to get out of the truck.
Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I look around at the town I’ve lived in for more than five years, really looking at it for the first time in what feels like forever. When I’m here, I typically drive through it from one end to the other, only stopping at the vet’s office to get a refill on medication or the feed store for their unwelcome hellos and an extra something for the horses.
Safe zones. The places I know that won’t cause a scene or more drama. The places I know will do business with me.
The first few times I came to town after Fletcher died come to mind. How I thought I might get an ounce of sympathy because my husband had just passed away—selfishly, I maybe even thought I could use it to my advantage to soften the perception they had of me or dim the criticism on the piece I wrote for the Texan Registrar.
I was expecting a second chance and what I got was more like a blindsided tackle that knocked me on my ass and put a cowboy boot on my throat. Owners asked me to leave their stores. Others approached me on the street and made a scene by asking me when I was going to pay my bills. People shouted, yelling about how dare I drive up in my fancy SUV when they’d been struggling to make ends meet for months because my husband had short-changed them or screwed them over.
It was then that I realized why Fletcher always kept me corralled at the ranch. It wasn’t because he wanted to protect me from the cattiness of the townspeople like he had said before. It wasn’t because he didn’t want me stressed out by their sneers, which could affect my chance of becoming pregnant again.
No.
Not in the least.
Fletcher talked me into believing—convinced me—that he was protecting me when, in reality, he didn’t want me to learn just how thoroughly he’d been digging us in to debt and screwing people over. He knew that the first person who approached and questioned us would cause a shitstorm he didn’t want to ride out. I’d demand to see the finances I had trusted him with. That I’d see the credit cards he’d maxed out or that we were a few months behind on our mortgage payments. I’d explode over the home equity line of credit I thought had a zero balance when instead it was well over two hundred thousand dollars and climbing.
Then I’d know the truth.
For some reason, Rusty’s words hit me hard as I sit in the truck under the warming Texas sun. His unsolicited opinions about how I need to change the narrative. His comments about how I need to try to somehow prove myself again.
Maybe it’s sitting here looking at this town I fell in love with when we first moved here with its quiet, homey charm that won me over and made me want to buy the ranch on the outskirts of town. Maybe it’s wondering how life would be if I could have some friends or support in this damn place.
I study the boutiques that have sprouted up along Main Street, at the fancy salon that takes up four storefronts, at the abundance of cars in parking spots when it isn’t tourist season.
Life has moved on while I’ve been sequestered and withering away.
“Get out of the truck, Tatum,” I grumble, suddenly self-conscious, thinking of my reflection when I forced myself to look in the bathroom mirror last night after my shower.
I know they will all be able to see the hollowness in my eyes and exhaustion weighing down on my shoulders and the uncertainty in my expression. The brassiness of my hair and my roughened palms. My body, which used to be lithe with taut muscles, now looks tougher and bulkier but unhealthy and gaunt all at the same time.
“You have to start somewhere,” I say as I open the door of my truck and slide out of the seat.
With a deep breath, I step onto the sidewalk. My sunglasses hide how my eyes flick left and right and take in the fresh coat of paint on all of the storefronts and the signs hanging from the streetlights that highlight different events coming up for Lone Star: the county fair, 4-H parade, and the next high school sports game.
It’s a delicate dance being here in town. If my head is held too high, I’m the bitch who thinks she’s better than them. If I look down and avert my eyes, then I’ve been defeated and am guilty of everything they’ve accused me of, which tells them they’ve won.
Neither is the truth, but at the same time, neither is a lie.
Before I have a chance to lose my courage, I beeline it for the salon.
“Welcome to Fiona’s, how may I help you?” the perfectly styled lady says from her seat behind her shabby-chic reception desk.
“Yes, I called earlier about getting my hair trimmed and colored. Tatum Knox.” Her eyes whip up, telling me everything I already knew.
That I was the topic of conversation around here after I called earlier.
She recovers quickly. “Yes. Of course. I have you booked with Fiona herself. If you’ll follow me, we’ll get you started.”
Stares follow me as I move through the expansive salon, which reminds me so very much of the kinds I used to go to when I was younger. When my life was about debutante balls and who was dating who.
