I don’t know what possessed me to tell Weston about my ex-husband, and I don’t know what I expected him to do when I told him. I thought he would stop looking at me like he thought I was better than I was or like he was still hungry for me, but neither of those things happened.
Instead, he brought his truck to a stop, looked me dead in the eye, and said the words I didn’t even know that I needed—that I craved: You don’t have to feel trapped like that again. They rang through me like a victory bell. When he said it, I believed him. Maybe it was the big blue Wyoming sky, but I didn’t feel trapped here.
The rest of our drive was uneventful. I had a chance to think about what Wes told me and about how willing he was to make sure I didn’t feel alone in my weird vulnerable state by telling me about his depression.
Honestly, I never would’ve guessed that was something he dealt with. Wes looked so happy. But I guess depression wasn’t really about what you looked like or how you appeared but more about what you felt like.
After that, we talked a little bit. He asked me what my favorite food was, if I was having a good time with the project so far—surface-level stuff. He was easy to talk to. Before I knew it, we were rolling into downtown Meadowlark. I wanted to buy a few hoodies, a warmer coat, and some gloves. I thought I could just go to a clothing store, but when I told Weston what I needed, he pulled to the side of Main Street right in front of the tractor supply place.
“I don’t think this place has what I need,” I said as he put the truck in Park.
“Trust me, this place has everything you need and probably things you don’t even know you need yet,” he said. “And for half the price you’d pay anywhere else.” He moved to get out of the truck and I followed.
“Are you going to be okay on your own?” he asked. Instead of responding out loud, I rolled my eyes before giving him a dirty look. I thought he would shrink back a little, but he didn’t. He just flashed his dimpled smile at me and kept talking.
“I need to pick up a prescription, and I have a couple of pairs of boots at the cobbler.” He tilted his head toward the small storefront across the street. Of course there was a fucking cobbler. “I’ll meet you back here in thirty?”
I nodded, even though part of me wanted him to stay with me, not that I would ever admit that. I didn’t know what it was about him, but when I was near him, I felt like I was floating. I felt okay. Those were two feelings I rarely felt anymore.
Still, the way that he constantly made a point of respecting my space and my boundaries also made me feel so grounded.
If I didn’t know any better, I would think that Weston was a genuinely good and decent man all the way through. Too bad that was impossible.
“Sure,” I said. He tipped his hat to me before turning and walking across the street. I tried to smother the butterflies that let themselves loose in my stomach. They were the same stupid bitches that had appeared when he ordered me into the truck earlier today.
I didn’t believe that I was going to find what I needed in the tractor supply, but I walked in anyway. I was immediately proven wrong, because the first thing I saw was a rack of black, yellow, and green Carhartt hoodies on sale for thirty dollars each.
Damn.
They sold these same hoodies at a boutique by my parents’ house in San Francisco for twice that.
If this was part of small-town living, I could get used to it. I flipped through the hoodies, picking out a black one and a green one before I started to wander the rest of the store.
There were definitely tractor supplies, or what I assumed were tractor supplies, but there was also a bunch of other shit—like those little dinosaur grabbers, a lot of clothes, home improvement stuff, which I made sure to make a mental note of, and a bulk candy section.
I spotted a dispenser with peach rings and couldn’t help myself. I took one of the bags and filled it to the top. After I’d walked around for a while and grabbed a few other things—a beanie, gloves, and a coat, which was another discount item—I made my way to the register.
A blond man was there to ring me out. He was handsome—not handsome like Weston, but handsome enough. That was something I noticed now—whether a man was good-looking in comparison to Wes.
“Did you find everything okay?” he asked. His eyes lingered on me a little longer than was comfortable.
“Yes, thank you,” I said. He started ringing up my items.
“I haven’t seen you in here before,” he said. It was almost accusatory.
Between his saying that and the weird way he was looking at me, I was starting to get annoyed. “Was there supposed to be a question in there?” I asked, shooting the cashier my best “Try me” glare while sliding my card across the counter. He shied away from my aggressive stare, and I had a feeling he wasn’t going to answer.
Good.
I watched the cashier run my card. After a few seconds, an aggressive and terrible noise came from the card reader, and I wanted to crawl under a rock. I knew what was coming next.
“Uh,” he said, “I’m sorry, but this card is declined. Do you have another one we can try?” No, I didn’t. This was the only credit card I had that wasn’t in my ex-husband’s name. Of course I didn’t use those after the divorce, but I didn’t qualify for any others, and my bank account was drained.
I did the mental math in my head of what I’d used the card for over the past couple of weeks against the limit.
Fuck.
“I—I—” I stammered. “Let me check.” I pulled out my wallet, trying to figure out how I could get out of this situation.
Just as I was about to make a run for it, another card slid across the counter and Weston’s voice said, “Use this.” I didn’t want him to save me. I didn’t need him to take care of me. This is what I got for opening up to him in the truck—another man who thought he could swoop in. “Your credit card company probably thinks your card got stolen,” he laughed. I knew that wasn’t true, but the cashier laughed along with him. He was covering for me, eliminating my embarrassment.
“That wouldn’t be the first time that happened,” the blond employee said. “How’s the project up at Rebel Blue going?”
“It’s good, Kenny. Thanks for asking.” Wes gestured toward me. “And you just met the woman in charge.” The cashier—Kenny—looked at me again.
“Welcome to Meadowlark,” Kenny said.
“See you later,” Wes said as he grabbed the bag with all of my stuff off the counter and headed for the door.
Once we were outside, I stopped and looked at Weston, who came to a stop next to me. The expression on his face was expectant, like he knew what I was about to say.
Well, he had it coming. “You didn’t have to do that. I don’t need you to take care of me,” I snapped.
“I know I didn’t have to do that,” he said. “But watching you shiver every morning is driving me fucking crazy, and you won’t take any of the coats I offer.” Yeah, because the one time I wore one of his coats I was so distracted by the smell I almost kissed him again.
“Because I was planning on buying my own coat,” I retorted.
“That plan worked out great, didn’t it?”
“I would’ve figured it out,” I said, even though I really didn’t think so. Worst case, I would’ve just had to leave without my haul. Best case, Kenny would’ve fallen for my “but I’m just a girl” shtick and extended me credit.
“Ada,” Weston said, using one hand to rub at his temple like he was the one entitled to be annoyed, “I did what I would’ve done for anyone else.” I ignored the way that made my stomach drop just a little bit. “If it’s that big a deal, I will take it all back.” Well, no. I didn’t want that. “But you need a coat. Your card didn’t work, and mine did. Pay me back later.” He looked at me then. “You can even add interest if it makes you feel better.”
It didn’t, but the way one of his dimples was trying not to make an appearance did.
“Fine,” I said.
“Fine,” he responded.
The ride home was quiet, the only sound the soft rock playlist—Tom Petty, the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, Steve Winwood—that flowed through the speakers.
And there were no stick-shift lessons.
But that didn’t stop me from imagining how my skin would feel pressed against his.
Great.
