2
QUINN
“You’re Still the One” by Shania Twain
- -
The rest of the day passes in a fog. Memories long since locked away have suddenly slipped free of their confines and infiltrated my mind, filling my brain with bits and pieces of a past I thought I’d left behind. It doesn’t matter that I don’t want to remember them—all it took was one piece of dadgum paper to rip away the metal chains securing those unwanted recollections deep within the depths of my soul. By the time I realize the sun has set and I’m alone in the shop, I’ve worked myself into a downright tizzy.
On a normal day, I can be hard to handle, but when I’m nursin’ a tizzy, whoa boy. Irrational and manic, that’s probably the best way to describe me in freak-out mode.
I’ve found that the best cure for a tizzy is popping open a cold one, so I head to the mini-fridge in my office, pop open a Corona, and perch on my still-messy desk, swinging my legs back and forth as the bitter liquid slides down my throat and brings me instant relief, the first I’ve felt all day since that piece of paper landed on my desk and shook me to my core.
I hate him for having this power over me.
I hate that I feel the pain of those memories sear through me as if they had happened mere seconds before and not nearly nine godforsaken years earlier.
I hate what he represents in my life.
And most of all, I hate that I care so much.
I’m used to letting those lost parts of my life define the person that I’ve become. I build a shield out of them, keeping everyone out except a select few, and in the end all it’s given me is a whole lotta nothing.
I’m alone.
The story of my life, it seems.
Not alone in the sense that I have no one. I do . . . have someones, that is, but I don’t have someone, and for a girl who’s only ever wanted to feel the love that the other half of your soul can give you—that means a whole lot more than I care to admit.
To be fair, not all the blame for my solitary life can be placed on Tate Montgomery’s shoulders, though a big ol’ heavy ton of it can. I guess, if I want to be technical about it, a large portion of the emptiness I feel stems from the woman who birthed me. Calling her a mother would be a title she doesn’t deserve, but until recently, I would have given anything to have her claim it.
I was too little when she left to have any real memories of her—only the fantasies that I’ve built around the idea of having a mother—but just because I can’t actually recall anything about her doesn’t mean that I don’t feel her rejection down to my bones. My brothers, God love them, did everything—still do everything—to show me I was loved, but growing up with the father we had. . . . His hate canceled out a lot of what Clay and Maverick tried to give me.
Aside from my brothers, the only other person who I know loves me unconditionally is my best friend, Leighton James. We’ve known each other our whole lives. Cheered each other on during every single step we took to become the women that we are today. There isn’t a single part of my life that her presence hasn’t imprinted upon. She is just as much a part of my family as my brothers are, especially now that she’s marrying one of them.
If I’m being completely honest with myself, her and Maverick coming together and finally finding their happily-ever-after is playing a big part in this self-pity stew I’m cooking up nice and powerful.
I’ve avoided finding mine.
I’ve dissuaded male attention and advancements because I know deep down my heart will only ever belong to one man. It just so happens that he wasn’t strong enough to fight for it.
Tate taught me to trust him. Every summer that he spent at his grandparents’ ranch only solidified his unrelenting pursuit of me, of us, of our future together. It took him almost four years to convince me of his adoration, his undying love and loyalty. He took a sixteen-year-old girl who had always feared trusting in the very thing he was offering and made her believe. For two years we survived on emails, phone calls, and only two months out of the year being spent physically in the same place. That was all it took though. The foundation we built was meant to be everlasting—even if his promises hadn’t been.
He taught me trust.
He showed me love.
Then he gave me pain.
So, no . . . all the blame might not be able to fall directly on him, but a large part of it does, and the rest of that dadgum blame only seems to be exacerbated with the unwelcome addition of his memory.
“For fuck’s sake,” I grumble, angrily swiping at the wetness leaking from my eyes. I look out my office window toward the brightly lit garage floor and contemplate my next move.
That’s a lie. I don’t think about a dang thing. I drain the last of my beer, grab my purse—a sweet black leather find I got at Coach the other weekend—and make quick work of turning off all the lights that the guys left on when they scattered. Gravel crunches and grinds under my steel-toed-cowboy-booted feet when I spin from the shop door and look down Main Street. It’s only seven at night on a Friday, but like clockwork, most of the businesses around are dark and closed for the night. There’s only one that I care about, though, and the bright-ass glow spilling from the front windows into the dusk around it makes me quicken my steps.
I hear my name right when I reach for the door to the PieHole, but I’m a woman on a mission. I burst into Leighton’s bakery with determination and look for her blond head behind the counter.
“Jesus Christ, Hell-raiser. You got the hounds of hell hot on your heels or somethin’?”
I spin around at the sound of Maverick, my other brother, laughing behind me as he catches up.
“Shut up, Cowboy. I’m in a mood, and right now if you’ve got a twig and berries between your legs, you’re the enemy. Where is my girl?”
Both of his dark brows go up at the clear venom in my tone and he takes just the barest step back. Maverick might be a retired professional bull rider, but I would be willing to bet he’d rather take on a big-ass bull again then deal with a pissed-off female any day.
Smart man.
“I’m thinkin’ this means I’m not takin’ my girl out on a date tonight?”
“You’re thinkin’ right,” I confirm, hooking my hand on my hip, just begging him to try and stand in my way.
“Got it. Tell Leigh I’ll be at home,” he concedes with a sigh, turning and reaching for the door we had both just entered through moments before. With one muddied boot already outside, his body stills and he looks over his shoulder at me. “If you need me, little sister, all you gotta do is holler.”
I nod, not trusting the turbulent emotions roaring around inside me enough to actually allow me to speak, but he can see everything in my eyes. Maverick always can. His free hand comes up and he lovingly taps his knuckles against my chin before walking out of the PieHole.
Ignoring the handful of townsfolk still scattered around the room enjoying an evening slice of pie, I walk through the cutout in the counter, past Avonlee, the high school girl Leighton hired to help out part-time, and straight into the kitchen. She’s used to me, thankfully, so she doesn’t even bat an eye at my boldness. It’s always been our way.
“Hey Quinn!” Jana Fox, Leighton’s longtime employee and manager of the PieHole, chirps.
I shake my head. “You are way too happy, Jana. Seriously, it’s just not right.”
She waves me off, laughing softly as her gray ringlets dance around her face. I kid you not: the woman is in her fifties and rocks a hairstyle that would rival Shirley Temple’s.
“Uh-oh,” she says in response, a twinkle in her eye. “You have that look about you, sweet child. Who is he? Don’t tell me you didn’t learn a thing or two from your brother and Leighton last year. In the meantime, though, while you get your head all screwed on, I just started sellin’ those sexy toys that all you youngsters are playin’ with if you need some help with your hooha. You really shouldn’t let that kinda frustration fester.”
“Jana!” Leigh shouts from her office. “Boundaries!”
I let out a laugh that feels like the emotional release I’ve been cravin’ ever since settin’ eyes on that damn piece of paper. In addition to being the best bakery manager this side of Texas, Jana also happens to be quite . . . enlightened for a woman of her age. And not shy about lettin’ all of us younger ones know it, every chance she gets.
“She thinks I will somehow understand where these invisible lines of hers are if she keeps bellowing that word, but I’m too old to change my ways. Plus, you kids have too many ‘boundaries’ as it is.”
“I’m thinkin’ you might have a different understanding of that word, Jana.” I laugh sarcastically.
“Oh, hogwash.”
I roll my eyes, some of the dark feelings inside of me slinking away in the face of Jana’s overwhelming cheer. I ignore the rumble in my stomach when I pass my fridge—the special one that Leigh always makes sure is stocked with my favorite pies.
“Oh, shit,” Leigh screeches right before we almost collide. I was so busy lusting over a kitchen appliance that I didn’t see that she had come to stand in her office doorway, and I almost knocked right into her.
“Got a second?”
“Always,” she answers without an ounce of hesitation.
“I sent Maverick away,” I confess, pulling her into the office and shutting the door.
“And he let you?”
“He wasn’t gonna argue with me.”
She laughs softly. “You have to stop threatening his manhood.” I narrow my eyes and she holds her hands up. “What? I happen to be quite fond of it.”
“There are so many things wrong about that statement. Besides, I didn’t threaten his . . . manhood. I just needed my best friend.” Thrusting out my hand, I wait for her to hold hers out before unclenching the tight fist I clamped around that stupid piece of paper. I glance at it briefly as it falls into her waiting grasp and see that the ink has started to spider from my sweaty palms, but even so, there’s no mistaking the name scratched on it.
Leigh’s eyes widen as she reads it. “Oh . . . shit.”
I nod. “Yeah. Shit. That ’bout covers it.”
She looks up from the paper, holds my gaze for a beat, and then looks back down. “Are you going to call him?”
“Are you going to ask stupid questions?”
“It’s not stupid, Q! He called the shop. The shop. He might have been gone for a long damn time, but there’s no way he forgot who owns Davis Auto Works. Even if he really is just looking to get some work done on his shit, he called your shop. You were really upset when he never came back after that summer. Maybe, if anything, you can get some closure with this call.”
I feel a little bad knowing that she doesn’t understand the whole picture—something I’m reminded of when she plays down the heartbreaking pain I felt when he all but vanished. Of course, that’s what happens when you keep things from your best friend.
“There’s a good chance he doesn’t know it’s mine now, you know. The last time I talked to him I had just started working there full-time. For all he knows I don’t even live in this town anymore, let alone own my family’s shop. Anyway, I think it’s past time for closure.”
“That’s a load of bullshit and we both know it. You guys burned mighty hot that summer, Q. You let it mark you. Hell, you keep letting it mark you, even now, refusing to let yourself get close to a man.”
I sigh and drop down to Leigh’s “special visitor chair. It’s wedged between the wall and a filing cabinet because her office is so small, but I know she keeps it in here for me and me alone.
She moves around her desk and sits, still holding the paper in her hands. “Do you want me to talk you out of calling him or encourage you to do it?” Understanding is written all over her face. I know that either way, she will support me all the way through.
I honestly don’t know the answer. “He left me, Leigh. Even though that’s what happened at the end of every summer, that last time it was different. We weren’t high school kids anymore. He said he would be back, even though he was starting university, with med school to follow. We hadn’t ever gone too long without at least checking in with each other when he went home the years before that, but that last summer I give him all of me and he just vanishes. I spent a long damn time pinin’ after him, making a fool out of myself with desperate attempts to reach him. I just don’t understand how, after all this time, I can possibly handle seeing him again. How does he still have this dadgum power over my feelings, Leigh?”
“I think you know why.” She breathes softly.
I don’t answer. I just look down at the paper she’s pushing toward the edge of her desk—the edge closer to me. She waits, ever the patient one, until I relent and take it. Then she starts pushing the phone on her desk in the same direction. I let out a dramatic sigh, but I turn it to face me. I don’t have to put up a brave front, not in front of Leighton: knowing I have her if I fall apart is what made my subconscious mind bring me here to see this through in the first place. Even if she doesn’t know just how serious things were between Tate and me, she’s giving me what I need: her friendship, love, and support.
Before I can give myself time to chicken out, I pick up the receiver and bring it to my ear, moving my fingers over the numbers written on the paper. If my cell hadn’t died earlier, I would be pacing this nervous energy out.
The first ring makes my heart pick up speed, the frantic beat making the hand holding the receiver to my ear shake.
The second ring makes the same galloping heart drop into my stomach.
But it’s the voice that I hear in the middle of the third that makes the rapid beating stop and stall, stealing the breath right from my lungs.
“Tatum Montgomery,” a deep, seductive rasp answers. That sound, that tone, matured with age, awakens every single thing—feeling—I had forced myself to forget about him.
My eyes flash to Leighton in panic.
“You got this,” she whispers. “You’re a hell-raising badass.”
“I’m a hell-raising badass,” I murmur in confirmation, trying to make myself believe her.
“Excuse me?” the sexy-as-hell disembodied voice asks, now sounding more confused but equally sexy.
I clear my throat.
Close my eyes.
Then pray my heart remembers how to beat after this.
“Starch.”