10
(Cara)
It’s official: I’ve found my place.
My HQ, my base camp, a command center of productivity. As every freelance writer or aspiring creative knows, finding your place is critical. The coffee shop or bar, the café or bookstore that feels so right, it seems even the chairs were ergonomically designed with you in mind, that way you can settle in and do what you do—whatever that is. Even if you’re mostly surfing the net and thinking about what you’re going to do, once you have your place, that’s enough.
Revolution Coffee is the same coffeehouse I discovered the day before my Earl Kidd fiasco, although I decided not to let any associations with that situation cloud its potential. Two days ago, I came back with my laptop in tow and drafted two thousand words about my day at the Eulands’. After I was done, I still had the energy to organize the photos I’d taken into folders on my laptop and email my first weekly update to the Purpose & Provisions editor. Really, given how long I’ve been here, what I’ve accomplished so far is respectable enough: acquainted myself with the general area, survived a run-in with the local crack-pot, spent a day on a ranch, and made sure to properly thank my “in” with the locals. While kissing Garrett was not on my Grand Valley to-do list, it was so worth going off-task for a moment.
Today, I get to cross off five items on my actual to-do list, including Interview Kenny Euland. So, who’s the superstar of the day? This gal. Who’s having a piece of strudel made with local Grand Valley pears as a reward? This gal.
Over a two-hour breakfast at a local greasy-spoon café, Kenny shared the nuances of his business, both the good and the bad. I also learned that not all ranchers hope their legacy and land will continue on with their kids.
“I’m praying Tanner doesn’t come back. My boy has a full ride to study international politics at DU. International politics, can you believe that? He’s too smart for this shit. Garrett was the same way, but had some shit luck and now he’s stuck. Kid like that shouldn’t be working at the damn co-op.”
Without prodding much, Kenny went on to give me Garrett’s story. The high school wrestling star carrying a 4.0 in high school, who left for college with both scholarships and ambition, only to lose his dad, abandon his future, and give up his farm and childhood home—all within a three-month time span.
For a guy like Garrett, who must have cut his teeth on a bootstrap way of life, it made no sense. Give up on finishing his degree? Sell his family farm to a guy who never made the time to see it? All without looking back or presenting anything but a happy-enough face to the world? Not buying it. I might know the facts now, but I still don’t understand the story. And as with all things Garrett, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.
My phone shimmies about on the tabletop, set to vibrate, and Amie’s smiling face appears on the screen.
Even at the risk of being that person in the coffeehouse, I answer. The place is empty except for a small table of high school girls who are too focused on their own phones to worry about me talking on mine.
“Hello?”
“Cara Jane. Tell me how you feel about monograms. Always elegant? Or a stodgy reminder of Granny Jane?”
Given the barbed tone and her lack of a playful greeting, I’d guess Amie’s dealing with yet another of our mother’s—or her soon-to-be mother-in-law’s—wedding-related demands. Not a day has gone by in the last few months that my sweet sister hasn’t had to manage a never-ending wedding to-do list and mediate a new drama. And contrary to conventional expectations, none of the dramas are because of her; instead, the mothers involved have picked up all the slack in that department. Thank God Amie has a heart of gold, an agreeable nature, and a maid of honor—me—who plans to buy her a pony if she makes it to the altar before losing her sweet mind. Or a bottle of Wild Turkey. She’s earned it, either way.
“Depends on the application,” I offer. “Pillowcases? Stodgy. That goes for all linens in general. But, like, barware? Not too terrible.”
“So, flasks for the groomsmen? Yes?”
I take a bite of my pear strudel and consider. Tayer’s groomsmen are a pack of Duke boys with all the pompous titles one would expect: Dr., Esq., Cpt., and CEO. Flasks will do just fine.
Because my mother hired Chicago’s most sought-after and kick-ass wedding planner, my task list as maid of honor is composed of two things: keep Amie sane and organize the bachelorette party. While the first is an ongoing endeavor, I’m nearly done with the second. Since our twin cousins from New Orleans—the forever bad-decision duo Mindi and Mandi—are the only members of the bridal party who might enjoy a wild weekend of strip clubs in Vegas, I’ve planned a long weekend in rural Wisconsin, of all places. We’ll be glamping it up on three hundred acres of forest land that surround a secluded lake. When I first pitched the idea to Amie, she gave me her frozen-faced I adore you but this sounds terrible smile, which thawed when I showed her pictures of the luxury “tents” with en suite bathrooms (complete with soapstone tile, steam showers, and enormous soaker tubs), the moon-and-candlelit dining pavilions, and the camp butlers. And she was all in when I showed her the spa menu and a description of their signature Himalayan salt stone massage.
As with the glamping, Amie eventually breathes a sigh of relief when I assure her the monogrammed flasks are a perfect choice. When I start to press her for more wedding update details, hoping to reassure her as best I can from hundreds of miles away, she casts it off and redirects the conversation.
“Distract me with an update on your adventures. Keep talking until I tell you to stop.”
With a laugh, I launch in. I tell her about Earl Kidd, finding my place, and, of course, Garrett.
I decide not to mention the part about how I attacked Garrett with my mouth three days ago. How one of his arms was around my waist a split second later, how he lifted my entire body up until my toes were barely grazing the porch, and I was between him and the side of the house, so I couldn’t go anywhere. Not that going anywhere was part of my plan. Because Garrett Strickland kisses like a starved man who just stumbled into a Wonka-like wonderland of his favorite things and doesn’t want to waste a single morsel—greedy and reverent with every nibble, taste, and lick he takes.
Still, mind-blowing kisses aside, I keep my current story focused on my misadventures with Mr. Kidd.
“I go tearing down this road away from Hotchkiss’s own version of Cliven Bundy–meets-the-Unabomber, and pretty much drive highway speed until I’m back in town. I needed to stop for gas, and even though I was still trying to calm down, hoping I didn’t throw up or cry, Garrett showed up, offering hugs and—”
“Stop.” My mouth clamps shut. A purr of interest curls in Amie’s voice. “Who’s Garrett? And why is he familiar enough to be offering hugs?”
“I told you about him, remember?”
“What? Wait, is this the redneck? His name is Garrett?”
A prickling sensation ripples through my chest. “Yes and yes. Why do you say it like that?”
“Because Garrett is a totally normal name. We know other Garretts. I figured his name would be, I don’t know, Cletus. Jethro. Ricky Bobby.”
I laugh at the mention of Ricky Bobby, picturing Will Farrell pontificating about his excellence. “Here’s the deal: I’m the best there is. Plain and simple. I wake up in the morning and I piss excellence.” My laugh is loud enough to jerk the high school girls’ attention from their smartphones to peer at me quizzically, as if I’ve just materialized out of thin air.
“Nope. Garrett Strickland.”
“Good name.” She hums a little. “It sounds sturdy. Does he look sturdy?”
Amie draws out the word with mischief, like she knows the answer before I give it: that Garrett is most definitely sturdy.
I temper my voice, hoping to tame my sister’s curiosity before it gets out of hand. “I don’t know . . . He’s tall, but not big. Not skinny or anything, just strong in a practical way. He can go from helping lug my reformer into the house to holding a calf in his lap while bottle feeding it. Does that help?”
She squeals. Uh-oh. So much for taming her curiosity. I was going for an objective description, but instead I must have sounded like there was a little bit of drool sneaking out of my mouth. Amie then demands evidence.
“Evidence?”
“Like a picture. I know you took some with that fancy camera Dad bought for you. Send me one.”
She’s right. I do have pictures. They may be stored in a folder called “GARRETT” on my laptop. There may be more images in that folder than in the others, titled “LANDSCAPES,” “CATTLE,” and “HOTCHKISS.” There may be one in which Garrett and Kenny are leaning against the bed of his truck and chatting, Garrett in profile with a perfect smile on his face. I may have saved a copy in which Kenny has been cropped out. Perhaps this photo exists.
Regardless, I try to protest.
Amie goes for my emotional jugular. “Cara Jane, I need this. Did I tell you that Mom and Mother Cahill demanded that I show them the lingerie I bought for the honeymoon? Demanded. Then they vetoed it, telling me red was absolutely not my color and I should go with a demi-cup over a teddy. I mean, if I don’t deserve some fun distraction and giggling over a boy with my sister, then who does?”
By the time she utters the word “vetoed,” I’ve hit send on a photo of Garrett and started looking for some sloth gifs to send her later.
“Check your in-box,” I mumble.
Another squeal, now combined with a short round of gleeful applause. Then silence. A gasp. Another squeal.
“Holy mother of Duck Dynasty. He’s adorable. In a hot, sturdy, amazing way. And if you have any pictures of him holding this newborn calf, I might need a minute alone.”
A stupid smile takes over my face. Even though he isn’t mine, even if there’s nothing other than one kiss between us, I love hearing the proof that it isn’t the altitude or something, that my weak-willed hormones aren’t solely to blame for the way I get around him. Garrett is hot. Objectively, undeniably hot.
“He wouldn’t let me take pictures with the calf. He said it would ruin his rep.”
“Please tell me there’s something going on with you two. Something that illuminates exactly how strong he is in a ‘practical way.’ ”
My meddling conscience rears up and ruins the fun. Wasting a few minutes giggling at a picture of Garrett is one thing, but anything more isn’t right. I close the laptop and tap my fork on the empty strudel plate.
“We shouldn’t talk about this, Amie. It’s weird.”
“Why is it weird? We’ve always talked about these things. About everything.”
I sigh. “Sure. In theory. As in, I’d devour Chris Evans like a gratuitously buttered, warm-from-the-oven pumpkin muffin. But this is different. I know it doesn’t make sense, but it feels I’m stepping out on Will and telling you about it. Too close for comfort.”
“Cara, stop,” she groans, before taking a deep breath. “You and Will are on good terms. You’re staying in Davis’s house, for God’s sake. If the whole Cahill family weren’t OK about this, he wouldn’t have extended the offer. So there’s no need for you to drag around some stupid guilt complex. Because that could get boring rather quickly. Celibate dramatics and gloom-doom would not be a good look on you.”
I sputter a laugh, and a weight previously so heavy in my heart, starts to lift with a few words of permission and encouragement from the girl who’s always known what I need.
“So go forth and copulate, please,” Amie continues. “Do it for me. Because the dopamine and such will be good for your already fab complexion and you’ll look amazing in my wedding pictures.”
Amie knows I’ll do just about anything for her. And even though I’ve never been one for sex with people I barely know, or flings with guys in towns where I’m essentially passing through, my typical no thank you thoughts on the subject are fuzzy at the moment.
Because Garrett Strickland might just be the best way to ensure I look rosy-cheeked and blissed out in front of the wedding photographer’s camera—better than any oxygen facial or La Prairie serum there is. Oh, the sacrifices a maid of honor must make. But for Amie? I think I can find a way to persevere.