24
(Cara)
While it might only take a few hours to drive from Aspen to Hotchkiss, it truly is like going from one world to another. Downtown Hotchkiss is absent of any tiny boutiques, so instead of Loro Piana and Moncler, you’ll find the big spenders around here at the farm supply store.
And forget grocery stores full of gleaming produce, well-curated cheese displays, and shelves lined with imported condiments bearing labels written in foreign languages. This grocery store has seven aisles, sallow lighting, and worn industrial carpet on the floors. But like so many other things about this community, there is something freeing about its simplicity, the way it makes a store with twenty-five different kinds of mustard seem not only wasteful, but ridiculous.
I arrived in town from Aspen a few hours ago, unloaded my bags at the farmhouse, and set off for the grocery store to stock up on some essentials. Aisle five happens to be where the oh-so-essential condoms are. The same place I’m currently struggling to do the math on how many boxes we’ll need to finish out my remaining time here.
Sixteen days . . . multiplied by Garrett’s amazing recovery rate . . . carry the three for my discovery that multiple orgasms is a thing . . . divided by the number of hours he works at the co-op, and . . . no wonder I was a liberal arts major, because math is hard.
I toss an extra box in my cart—better safe than sorry. A quick scan to determine if I have everything I came for. Yes, but things are also looking a little processed. The closest thing to a vegetable in here is a box of sun-dried-tomato-flavored crackers.
I hustle my way back toward the produce section to grab a few apples, rounding the corner too quickly and nearly crashing my cart into the backside of Braden, who is scowling at an overripe avocado and squeezing it gently in one of his big hands. To avoid hitting him in the butt with my cart, I end up crashing into a display stand where the other sad avocados are piled up.
Braden slowly turns to look over one shoulder and raises a brow.
“Sorry. I was trying to avoid hitting your . . .”
I twitch a hand toward his behind. Braden follows the gesture with his eyes, still gently fondling the avocado, and my face starts to heat. Braden’s brooding hotness and his particularly intense brand of scrutiny could make even the strongest-willed woman a little wobbly. While his hotness doesn’t do anything for me, the scrutiny has an especially unnerving effect.
So I do what I always do when I’m unnerved. I babble. A lot.
“I wanted to get some apples because my cart was looking a little packaged and processed. I figured I could jet back over here and load up on things without an expiration date printed on them. I think I’ll skip those avocados; they look like about a week past guacamole and about two hours away from drawing fruit flies. Garrett’s not particular, but even he might balk if I tried to serve up something using those things. I mean, he might actually say no. And Garrett doesn’t say no to anything, at least he never has to me, except when I’m prying and—”
“You talk a lot. Garrett never mentioned that.” Braden’s eyes flick downward and scan my cart, where three boxes of condoms sit like obscene cherries on a sundae. “But he’s a redneck chatterbox himself. The fact he can’t talk much has been a nice break from his usual flapping.”
“What? Why can’t he talk?”
Braden sets the avocado back on the display, picks up another. “He’s sick.”
“Sick?” The word comes out squeaky and panicked, but Braden doesn’t notice; he simply continues to squeeze his way through the avocado display. Garrett and I have been incommunicado in the three days since he left my hotel suite on Monday. I knew he was working, and he knew I was trying to get in some quality sister time with Amie, so we’ve each been doing our thing. Apparently, part of his thing has involved getting sick.
“What’s wrong with him? Is he OK? Does he need anything?”
Finally, Braden gives his attention to me instead of the guacamole starters.
“Those are rhetorical questions, right? Because I’m the guy friend, so this isn’t my department. You are the girlfriend. All I know is he’s complaining like a big-ass crybaby.”
Girlfriend. I heard the rest, but my brain keeps rewinding to that word. Garrett’s bestie just referred to me as his girlfriend, and I want to quiz him on why. Did Garrett call me that? Does Braden think that? Does he see what we don’t? Underneath his gruff, prickly exterior is he an all-knowing seer of the human heart?
I’ll study on that later. All I need to know right now is what Garrett’s mango lassi Popsicle is. The comfort food he needs when he’s sick. Everyone has something their mom served up on a TV tray while they convalesced wearing footie pajamas and watching cartoons. Even I have a thing. Granted, the special mango lassi Popsicles were made by our housekeeper and presented on a silver tray with crystal handles. But my mom told her to make them, which was her way of showing concern. So what is Garrett’s mango lassi Popsicle?
“His what?”
I shake my head, wishing I hadn’t accidentally said that out loud given my audience.
“I’m trying to figure out what his mom would make him. Everybody has the thing their mom made them when they were sick, right?”
Braden rolls his eyes, starts to respond. Before he does, his eyes track over my shoulder and his entire face hardens as a string of muttered curse words leave his mouth. Slowly, I peer over my shoulder to see what could possibly make Braden crankier than usual.
And I’m not a guy or anything, but on the receiving end of his stare is a woman who most men would not scowl at.
Drool over? Stumble toward in a daze? Drop onto one knee and propose to? Those things, yes. These would be the reactions of normal men to the blonde across the store.
Her hair is a tumble of beach-blonde waves pulled up into a messy bun, showing off a set of bright blue eyes, big dark eyelashes, and a peaches-and-cream complexion. She’s clad in a pair of black leggings with a camo coat on but unzipped where the top she’s wearing underneath shows off her seriously plentiful breasts. She’s laughing at something the dark-haired and heavily tattooed woman next to her just said, and I can’t decide if I’m more jealous of her cup size or how shiny her hair is. Total toss-up. She’s like a beauty queen wrapped in cool, outdoorsy packaging—and factoring in Braden’s reaction, I quickly figure out who she is.
This must be the TV huntress girl, the thorn in Braden’s already thorny side. Amber something. When she glances our way, her smile broadens and she gives a little wave in our direction. Braden grunts and turns my way.
“As I said before, this is girlfriend department shit. But if you really want to know what wee Garrett’s mom would make him, you could just call her. She works for the city over in Grand Junction, in the payroll department. Ask for Paula Strickland—she never went back to her maiden name.”
He shoots a dejected look at the empty basket he’s been clutching and another at the sad avocados. “But I have to get out of here before I do something that will land my ass in jail or on the unemployment line.”
He awkwardly jangles the basket, looking for a place to dump it. When he doesn’t find anything, I extend my hand. “Give it here. I’ll put it back.”
“You’re a fucking saint, Cara. You are so out of Strickland’s league it isn’t even funny. You know that right?”
I yank the basket away. “You’re kind of a jerk. You know that, right?”
“I absolutely do.”
His long legs make short work of the store and he’s gone. Good grief, he’s wound tighter than an eight-day clock. Amber Regan and her smiles and her big personality would probably be good for him.
I set his basket in my cart and fish out my phone. Back to the matter at hand: getting an answer to what Garrett’s mango lassi Popsicle is. My reporter instincts kick in, and after a quick search, I find the city of Grand Junction website, scroll through their departments and track down the HR department phone number, dial, and ask for Paula Strickland. Then I’m on hold, and while I wait, I realize what a stupid idea this.
I’m not a reporter right now; I’m just a pushy-slash-presumptuous girl randomly calling the mom of the guy she’s sleeping with. Whom I’ve never met. At her place of employment. To ask about comfort food. I don’t even know how to open the conversation. Ms. Strickland? Paula? And after that, how do I introduce myself? As Garrett’s girlfriend? As the woman with three boxes of condoms in her shopping cart, all purchased with her son in mind? Or as a woman who is leaving in a few weeks but is starting to worry that she’s not going to be able to give him up?
Jesus. What was I thinking? The on-hold music—an elevator version of “My Heart Will Go On”—continues to play in my ear and I’m a split second away from hanging up.
“Hello, this is Paula.”
Dammit. I suck in a sharp but quiet inhale and blurt out an entirely fact-based greeting, hoping that might make me feel a little less like someone whose internal compass for what’s socially appropriate is currently off-kilter.
“Hello, Paula. My name is Cara Cavanaugh. I’m a friend of Garrett’s.”
There. That was just right. All the facts and nothing that alludes to how well I know her son. Well enough that I’ve endeavored to make a detailed inspection of every freckle on his pretty body, especially the cluster that resides low on his right hip bone and resembles the Little Dipper constellation. Those freckles and I have gotten close. Biblically close.
“Cara Cavanaugh? I’m sorry, sweetheart, but have we met? If so, I’m embarrassed to say I don’t remember. Although Peanut hasn’t brought a girl over to meet me in years. I think I would remember.”
Wild delight creeps through my chest and flushes over my face in an instant. For two reasons. One—be still, my ever-swoony heart—his mom calls him Peanut. I can’t decide if this is something I should tell him I know, or something I should keep tucked away in the happy parts of my brain, along with an image of a boyhood Garrett, all gap-toothed smiles and floppy hair and impossibly grubby clothes.
Secondly, I’m apparently not just the latest in a string of girls seduced by Garrett’s easy way and honest heart. Even if I haven’t met his mom, neither has anyone else. Suddenly, it feels like I’m a very special snowflake.
“No, no. We haven’t met. I’ve only just met Garrett when I relocated to Hotchkiss for a bit while I’m working. We’ve only known each other a month or so.”
“Oh!” Paula lets out a strange peep. Like a baby chick but more excited. “You’re the girl from Chicago. You went out to Kenny’s with him. You’re tall.”
That earlier delight turns to triumph. He told his mom about me. I am a very special snowflake. The most extraordinary, remarkable, haute couture snowflake to ever land on Garrett’s tongue.
No. No thinking about his tongue. Not now.
“That’s me. I was calling because he’s sick and I was curious if there was anything I could make for him. You know, a comfort food. He has a cold or something, although I just got back into town and I’m going entirely off Braden’s assessment of the situation, which was—”
Paula interjects flatly. “Full of compassion and curse words, I’m sure.” She laughs quietly. “But the answer to your question is lemon chicken orzo soup. Peanut calls it the magic soup.”
Let the heart melting being. Peanut and his magic soup. Thank God for this shopping cart because my knees are about to give out from the schmaltz of swoon going on in my chest. Paula rattles off the ingredients and a few basic instructions. Sounds like I’m dealing with a pretty basic chicken soup, but orzo takes the place of egg noodles, dill replaces parsley, and a hit of lemon juice rounds it out. I thank her and promise to provide an update once I’ve seen her Peanut with my own eyes.
“And Cara?”
“Yes?”
She lets out a chuckle. “Good luck.”
“I’m sure it will be fine. I’ve made regular chicken soup before, so this shouldn’t be too much of a stretch.”
She sighs. “No. I meant good luck with Peanut. He’s a pill when he’s sick. If there was a contest for crankiest sick person ever? He’d wear the sash and earn the crown.”
She wasn’t kidding. Not even a little bit.
Garrett Strickland is an obstinate, grumpy, crabby sick person. He’s a teething baby wrapped in the body of a grown man, waffling between whiny and cantankerous so quickly my head is starting to hurt.
I was greeted with this: “FYI, never sneak into a redneck’s house, City. This isn’t Chicago, and our approach to home security does not involve ADT. More like CZ. Or S&W.”
For the record, I did not sneak. I knocked. Twice. Then I let myself in through the always-unlocked door. Then I bumbled around in the kitchen for ten minutes or so before he crept out from his bedroom wearing just his boxers and a T-shirt with his hair a mess and holding a .45 in his hand. It was pointed downward, but still. I was able to put to use the knowledge I’d gained from a few days spent at the local outdoor shooting range with Garrett in order to note that the safety was on—and the fact that I now know how to distinguish a specific handgun from others and be able to visually identify that the safety is on shows exactly how much my life has changed in the last few weeks.
He shuffled back into his room, and I stood there a little dumbfounded while I listened to the sound of his nightstand drawer opening and him returning the piece to where it normally resides.
Back out he came. “Do you hear that? Why are those birds chirping? It’s the middle of the day, for fuck’s sake.”
Followed by, “Feel my forehead. Please. Cara, baby, I think I’m dying.”
After he flipped the channels on the television for approximately two minutes, he tossed the remote onto the coffee table with a growl. Then he whined for a blanket. Then he declared he was dying. Again. I sent him back to bed.
That was two blissfully quiet hours ago. I was able to finish up the soup prep, then settle into my place on the couch and fire up my laptop to organize some notes and do some research on reclamation work at abandoned mining sites for a spec piece I’ve been noodling on, inspired by the controversies brewing down around Durango. I lost a few days of work time while I was in Aspen, but I’m still on track overall, and the editor at Purpose & Provisions is happy with the pages I submitted with my last progress report.
As it turns out, Garrett and I together became a good thing for my work; aside from his help with interviews and understanding this world, he did more. He pushed me when I needed it, pulled me along when I got stuck, and let me off the hook when it was for the best. He’s become a solid beta reader, too—I’ve finally gotten him to tell me when he thinks something I’ve written isn’t quite right, instead of blanketing his opinions with some version of you’re the writer, not me.
Garrett shuffles out of the bedroom, not looking much like the solid guy I just described. He’s dressed in a pair of loose sweatpants and a fresh T-shirt, his hair wet from a shower. He pushes his bottom lip out in a pout when I pat the couch cushion next to me, setting my laptop on the coffee table. Garrett drops heavily onto the cushion and tips his head to rest on my shoulder.
“Feel a little better?”
He grunts. “Like one percent better. Maybe two.”
I kiss his forehead then push some still-damp locks of his hair over to one side. “I made you some soup. How about we eat some and finish watching Red Dawn?”
“What kind of soup?”
“Lemon chicken orzo.”
His head cranes my way, hazel eyes brightening a bit. “You made the magic soup?”
Cranky or not, the sweet hit of adoration there means I want to keep him more than ever. Even more than I did when we were in bed three days ago, as much as I probably will days from now when I realize he’s given me his cold germs. I kiss his forehead again.
“That I did.”
“How did you know?”
“Well, Peanut, a little bird told me.”
Garrett groans. Then he nestles down onto my lap, gives me a tired smile and a murmured thank-you.
That’s when I understand what a spectacular mess I’ve created for myself, because this—leaving him and going home—is going to hurt. Badly.