WELCOME TO COLD SPRINGS!!
HOME OF FRIENDLY FACES AND SCENIC VISTAS!!!
A lot of people ask the universe for “a sign” when they’ve got a decision to make. What I don’t think they expect is for it to be a five-foot-wide by three-foot-tall green-and-white reflective chunk of metal with questionable punctuation and capitalization. I certainly didn’t. Though the extra exclamation points and overly emphatic capitalization do make me snort a little.
The sign is the doing of the one and only Francine Lockewood, Cold Springs’ librarian and self-proclaimed historian. When the oldest elder in town declares the city council is being old fuddy-duddies and that she’ll haunt the entirety of city hall if the winner of her slogan competition isn’t honored, it’s hard to disagree. Of course, the fact that no one had condoned a contest to begin with, and Francine had taken it entirely upon herself to run one, meant nothing.
I remember hearing my dad bitch about it, but in the end, Francine won. The city council ponied up $1,000 for that sign just to stop her from whispering to every school kid, soccer mom, and library visitor about the council members. They were protecting their jobs, what with an election coming up. Besides, it is sort of friendly and quaint, so maybe it is a little bit of a good sign?
Better than the one that actually drew me home, at least: the wedding invitation in the passenger seat of my truck. That one hit me like a bolt from the blue—literally, since my mailbox is blue. It’s the universe telling me to handle my shit like a grown-ass man. Point taken, albeit reluctantly. Coming up to a red light, I glance at the ivory, heavyweight cardstock with fancy gold embossed script for the dozenth time.
The pleasure of your company is requested at the marriage of
Miss Avery Singleton
and
Mr. Winston Ford
Ford Family Home
Saturday, May 21, 6:00 p.m.
RSVP
The words alone are shocking, but I still might’ve ignored the invitation despite the fact that my younger, perpetual-bachelor brother is apparently getting married. The accompanying handwritten postscript hadn’t been as easily dismissed.
Come to the wedding, Wyatt. I want you by my side. Please. —Winston
Even then, if he’d left it at the first two sentences alone, I would’ve skipped and claimed my invite was lost in the mail if anyone ever called me on it. Not that they’ve called me in the years I’ve been gone. But that last little bit, the please, had been my undoing.
Once upon a time, Winston and I were close. He and I were united, allies in a struggle of behavioral appropriateness and familial expectations that eventually had me leaving town. And despite our relationship growing distant since I left, our bond is still strong. If I were getting married—which I’m never going to do—I would want him by my side. Hell, I’d even go so far as to admit that I’ve missed him, and some other members of my family, but not enough to go back. Until now.
So here I am, drawing closer to the town that never did anything for me but expect my sweat and tears simply because of my blood. Cold Springs, the city that is both kingdom and prison to my family.
My father isn’t simply on the city council that argued with Francine; he’s been on it for most of my lifetime, and is currently the mayor.
My mother? President of the Junior League, former head of the parent-teacher association, and back in the day, Miss Cold Springs herself, who took first runner-up at the state contest.
My uncle? The largest developer and contractor in the county. At least 60 percent of the houses here were either built by Ford Contractors or have had repairs done by Ford Contractors.
The Fords are Cold Springs. For a lot of people, it’d be enough. I could’ve set myself up as a small-town prince.
Except I don’t want any part of it. I didn’t when I was younger, and I still don’t now.
Francine was right about one thing—this town does have scenic vistas, but there will be few to no friendly faces for me on this visit. Thankfully, the rolling green hills and bright blue skies are beautiful enough to make up for it.
Almost.
I roll my window down, calling out to the trees, “Home sweet home. You miss me?”
The wind carries my words off, the trees ignoring my question as they focus on photosynthesis, and I suck in a deep breath of fresh, crisp air. As my lungs expand, my gut turns, souring the sensation.
This is going to be a clusterfuck of epic proportions. There’s no way around it. I’ve found peace and enjoy a life where I’m not judged on my last name, except by car lovers. I’ve settled into a routine of my own making, but returning to my hometown automatically dredges up all the reasons I left.
I won’t be able to avoid them when they’re standing proudly at Winston’s wedding like Dad of the Year and Uncle of the Century. It’s going to hit me like a baseball bat to the balls.
Speak of the devil, or even think of him, and he shall appear. A larger-than-life billboard looms tall beside the road with my Uncle Jed’s face beaming from its vinyl surface. It’s been photoshopped, his teeth bleach white, his skin tanned, his hair perfect. Next to his face is the text.
TRANSFORMING WITH THE TIMES
SPRINGDALE RANCH SUBDIVISION
* LUXURY HOMES * NEW SCHOOLS * PRIVATE TECH HUB
COMING SOON—THE NEW AND IMPROVED COLD SPRINGS
The boring lack of extraneous punctuation tells me that Francine had nothing to do with the billboard, but it’s the overall tone that furrows my brows. New and improved?
What in the hell is Uncle Jed up to now?
Luxury homes in Cold Springs? I mean, Mom and Dad’s place is definitely nothing to sneeze at, but a whole new subdivision of them seems aggressive for what’s always been a place that can’t quite decide if it’s a tiny city or a town.
And new schools? As in plural? I’m not sure there’s even a need for that. I’m not that old, and Cold Springs High wasn’t crowded back when I was there.
Most of all, what the hell is a private tech hub? Sounds like an overpriced copy machine that’ll make espresso while you wait for your shit to print out.
The billboard version of my uncle doesn’t answer. He stands silently with his arms crossed and a shit-eating grin on his face, khakis perfectly pressed and light blue shirt screaming his “rich guy pretending to be a working man” image.
“Plans, boy. I’ve got big plans.”
He told me that once, and though I never doubted that he did, I didn’t quite think he meant . . . this. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m coming back when I am. For the wedding and to find out what the hell is going on.
As I drive through downtown, I see signs in the windows of businesses and the historical homes surrounding the old-fashioned square that’s still the center of town.
MCMANSIONS = HIGHER TAXES FOR YOU AND ME!
SAY NO TO REZONING!
And the most vehement and blatant one . . .
FUCK JED FORD!
The tone of the last one is a little bit scary, especially given that it’s got a pitchfork poking a cartoon version of Uncle Jed’s crotch and devil’s horns sprouting out of his ubiquitous cowboy hat. But it’s outside the local bar and grill, which is run by a woman who has a sordid history with Uncle Jed, so maybe it’s saying more about her than him? I’d like to hope so, but a little voice in my head whispers, “I doubt it.”
I finish making my way through downtown and get into the part of Cold Springs where my family and family friends live, and the signs change to ones that are more supportive of whatever Jed is up to. Or at least supportive by default . . .
BILL FORD
COLD SPRINGS MAYOR
REZONING FOR THE FUTURE
The plain lawn signs may have my dad’s name on them, but he’s always been the “one” of the one-two punch that is Bill and Jed, no jokes about “excellent adventures” necessary. So anything supportive of one is in favor of the other. That means I’ll need to have a talk with both of them to catch up on what’s happening in Cold Springs.
I grunt in displeasure at the very thought. This is why I left. Or at least one of many reasons. I don’t want to be involved in all this “politics interlaced with business and all connected by family” bullshit. It’s shady as fuck and driven as much by greed as by progress.
But those thoughts dissolve into the breeze as I see my childhood home. It’s a large, historical house that’s been kept in meticulous condition for over a hundred and fifty years. The two-story white columns and black shutters surrounding every window look freshly painted, and the manicured green lawn is dotted with pristine flower beds pruned into submission. Dandelions are afraid to even land on that dirt.
The double-wide driveway of stamped concrete is clear of even a speck of dirt or grass, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Mom has it swept every morning.
I used to play on the lawn as a child. Me, Winston, and our sister, Wren, would run amok, play hide-and-seek, and create entire fantasy worlds with our “castle” as a backdrop. I didn’t realize how true that was until much later, though, when school became a study in classism, the haves and the have-nots naturally dividing into groups. Membership was declared through a hundred subtle signs, from what brand and type of shoes you wore to how worn or fashionable your jeans were.
As the wealthiest of the haves, I was treated as either the fabled prince who could do no wrong—despite my considerable list of wrongdoings—or the spoiled rich boy who couldn’t be bothered to actually do anything.
The truth lay somewhere in the middle back then. It wasn’t like I sat around waiting for life to be handed to me on a silver platter . . . but I definitely ignored more than a few rules, confident I wouldn’t catch hell for it.
It was, in ways that a lot of people don’t understand, miserable. A lot of my acting out was simply rebellion, asking someone to actually make me pay for my bullshit. And it kept getting excused. Which of course just led to more bullshit.
However, it did teach me an important lesson. Sometimes people will have preconceived ideas about you, and regardless of their accuracy, they will not be swayed, no matter the proof to the contrary. People liking or disliking me, using or dismissing me, without knowing anything other than my last name was a hard pill to swallow. Even now, living in a city where my name means nothing, I find it difficult to trust people’s intentions.
Shutting off my engine, I relish in the moment of silence, taking one last breath of freedom, and wishing I could reverse out of here and never look back. But I can’t.
All because Winston fucking said please.
I step out of my black Tundra, my boots barely touching the ground before the tall glass double doors swing open and a yellow bomb of fluff blurs toward me. Before I have a chance to react, it launches at me like a heat-seeking missile, hitting me flat in the chest and knocking me to the ground to be attacked by wet, sloppy kisses.
“Mr. Puddles! Hey, buddy! I missed you too,” I tell the goldendoodle, who is nipping at my stubble as though trying to figure out what weird animal is currently living on my face. Mr. Puddles whines, his butt wiggling happily as I pet him. “That’s my stubble, not an intruder,” I tell him laughingly as I press my forehead to his. I did miss Mr. Puddles.
There’s the click of heels on concrete, and another voice calls out, “Well, I’ll be a damned liar! I told Winston there was no way you’d come back, not even for a wedding. Way to surprise even me.”
My sister’s voice is sharp and sarcastic but doesn’t hide the thread of hurt beneath the venom. Knowing her, she meant for it to show so she could twist the knife a little. Pretty much every rock or country singer’s epitome of that small-town girl who can turn his heart inside out and go dancing off into the sunset without a single fuck given, Wren is smart as a whip and more skilled at verbal warfare than anyone I’ve ever met.
Thankfully, I know how to deflect her a little. “I missed you, too, Wren.”
She blinks, not giving in. In fact, her chin rises another inch, her nose haughtily in the air.
“And I’m sorry?” I hope it’s enough because it’s all I have to give her. There’s no big story to tell, no tears of remorse, and no promises that I’ll stay for good this time, because I’m not sorry I left.
Though I am sorry I hurt her by leaving.
“It’ll do,” she tells me, the ice slightly melting in her emerald eyes. “For now.”
In a rapid switch of blondes from goldendoodle to human sister, she’s crouched down beside me, hugging me tight. The smell of sunflowers and vanilla wafts up from her hair, and I realize that I’d forgotten what her signature perfume smells like. It’s more of a gut punch than anything else has been today.
Mr. Puddles takes the opportunity of having two of his favorite people on his level to dive back in for more cuddles, and squirms his way between Wren and me, his belly up as he lets us know exactly where to pet.
I give in, rubbing his soft fur before shifting over and getting up. I offer Wren a hand up as well, and she follows it in for another hug. She’s tiny next to me, barely five foot but full of confidence that makes her seem ten feet tall and bulletproof, another one of her traits that seems to be pure Wren. Of course, the Ford name doesn’t hurt. Neither does the trademark Ford beauty, which she puts to good use.
Early on, Wren learned from Mom how to make the most of her green eyes, hair with natural highlights most women pay for, and feminine figure. I’m pretty sure that during her time at Cold Springs High, just about every guy had at least a passing crush on her, but that’s mostly a guess since I was already gone for the majority of those years.
But just as importantly, she learned how to put her brain to use by watching Dad, though she likes to play the dumb-blonde act to her advantage when it suits her.
“Wy, I can’t breathe,” she grunts, laughing despite her lack of oxygen. I squeeze a little tighter, and she thumps me on the back hard enough to take my breath away too.
“Oh, sorry. Just happy to see you,” I tell her, surprised at the honesty in my own words.
“You could’ve come visit anytime,” she reminds me. Her perfectly filled-in brow arches as she experiments with delicately calling me out.
“You could’ve come visit me anytime too,” I echo, not taking the bait.
“Psshaw, and leave all this.” Her smile is bright and as fake as a twenty-five-cent diamond from a gumball machine as she throws her hands out, indicating the house behind her.
“You’d like Newport, Wren. City shopping, for one. And there’s less . . .”—I search for the right word, but find only one—“Ford there.” Somehow, she knows exactly what I mean when I use our last name to describe the difference between Cold Springs and Newport.
Her nod is resigned. She understands better than anyone, I suspect. “There’s a lot going on here at the homestead, Wyatt. I didn’t feel like there was ever a good time to leave.”
“There never is.” The truth sits heavily between us. My leaving went over about as well as a stink bomb in Sunday school, but I still feel like it couldn’t have gone over any better regardless of the timing. “Well, let’s get this over with.”
I take a step toward the front door, following Mr. Puddles, but Wren makes a sound of uncertainty. She clears her throat, and I look down at her. “There are things you should know. About Winston, about Dad and Uncle Jed.”
I don’t stop my progress, on a mission now that I’ve started it. “I figured as much. Let me see what the hell they’ve gotten into now.”
I burst through the front door and into the grand foyer as my mother, Pamela Ford, comes rushing down the stairs. She’s wearing one of the typical uniforms she rotates through, a white tennis skirt with matching tank top. Objectively, my mom is still a knockout, even if there hasn’t been a Miss Cold Springs pageant in at least a generation. She’s diligent about taking care of herself with visits to the tennis courts, the salon, and I suspect, the doctor.
Her eyes go wide as she gasps at the sight of me. “Oh my goodness! Wyatt! Are you really here?” Her hands flatten against her chest dramatically. And the Best Actress Award goes to . . .
“Flesh and blood, Mom.”
“My baby!” she exclaims, running toward me. Her arms go around my waist, and I crouch slightly to wrap my arms around her shoulders, careful not to squeeze her too hard.
“I’m not a baby,” I growl, fighting a smile.
She pulls back, looking up to remind me, “Thirty-six hours of painful labor to push that big head out gives me the right to call you my baby for your entire life.”
Yeah, I’ve been hearing that one awhile. “Disagree. But I’ll agree to your life. Deal?”
In answer, she hugs me again. I take that as agreement and call it a win.
From somewhere behind me, Wren adds on, “Sounds like you’re assuming you’ll outlive Mom. That remains to be seen with the upcoming festivities. I’m predicting Mom’ll be wailing at your funeral within the week.”
“Oh, Wren! Don’t be like that,” Mom scolds her. Abandoning whatever plans she had, Mom starts dragging me toward the living room, talking a mile a minute and hitting me with rapid-fire questions. “I’m so glad you came for the wedding. Have you seen Winston yet? He’ll be so pleased to see you. How long are you staying? You’ll stay upstairs in your room, of course. Did you bring a date? You know she’ll have to stay in a different room so things are proper.”
“Mom.” The tone of exasperation is obvious and does at least make her pause to take a breath. “I haven’t seen anyone but you and Wren yet, but this is strictly a visit. I’m going home after the wedding.” She didn’t ask that, but I know it’s the one thing she wants to know, and I’ve got to stop that train long before it can even start to leave the station. “And I’m alone. I wouldn’t dream of subjecting someone I actually care for to this circus shitshow.”
Harsh, but true. And while my mother may not like it, Wren snorts and then mutters under her breath, “True that.”
“Wyatt,” Mom gasps again, this time more in horror than excitement at my presence. I dare to call my family situation a circus shitshow? Oh, the humanity.
A sudden shout brings us all up short, tension shooting through all three of us.
“William? Is that really you?”
Mom and Wren meet eyes, matching worry blooming faster than a hothouse flower. Their reaction worries me, and a moment later I can see why as my father, William Ford II (never Junior), stumbles into the room with a glass of amber liquid in his hand. From here, I can smell that it’s scotch.
It’s early for a drink, definitely not an after-work cocktail, but maybe he had a rough day? He looks as though that’s a possibility, his expensive black slacks wrinkled and his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. He squints at me through bleary eyes, and I begin to suspect this isn’t his first scotch.
“William? That you?” he repeats. It sounds like he’s forgotten that he already asked, and my concern ticks up a notch.
“It’s Wyatt, dear,” Mom corrects him, touching his arm gently. I might be William Wyatt Ford III, but I’ve always gone by my middle name, the same way my dad has always gone by Bill.
What the hell? I think, alarmed. Is this what Wren wanted to talk about?
In all my years, I’ve never seen my usually meticulously steady and stoic father sloppy drunk. I think I’ve only seen him tipsy at a party once or twice, and those were usually events like New Year’s or a birthday.
After all, he prides himself on his standing in the community as mayor and city council representative. He wouldn’t want to tarnish his reputation by being seen as something as mundane as a drunkard.
For a moment, I’m too shocked to even respond, but eventually words come. “Hey, Dad. Cutting out of work a bit early today?”
This a skill set us Fords learn at a very young age—the ability to say something without actually saying it. It’s all in the delivery, the tone, the subtle eyebrow lift.
“Wyatt,” Mom starts, her worry morphing into embarrassment. “Don’t make it worse. Your father has been hard at work.”
“Don’t need you to make excuses for me,” Dad snarls, jerking his arm away from Mom, who looks stricken.
Wren sighs heavily before calling out, “Leo, code D-A-D in the living room.”
Leo, one half of the couple who has cared for our home and us for decades, pops in immediately. He looks the same as the day I left, his dark hair still blacker than night and his eyes full of a degree of kindness I only ever received from him and his wife, Maria. “Oh, Mr. Ford, let me escort you to your office. You can have a minute to gather yourself.”
Leo wraps a gentle but strong arm around Dad’s shoulders, urging him toward the hall, but Dad’s feet don’t budge. “I don’t need to gather myself. Don’t you see my son here? Back from running away to do God knows what, only God knows where.”
I grit my teeth at being likened to a runaway throwing a temper tantrum when I left for valid reasons. But my anger morphs as I observe the power struggle, and I watch Leo subtly glance to Mom for approval, and she nods slightly. It appears to be a routine of “control the drunk” they’ve done before, and I’m left with a sour, bitter twisting feeling in my stomach.
What the fuck is going on here?
“Mr. Ford, I must insist. I believe there’s a call for you. Something about the council meeting?” Leo suggests more firmly, grasping Dad’s arm. I’m certain there’s no phone call and it’s simply a ploy to get Dad to agree to a moment out of sight.
“Leggo of me!” he snaps, not willing to play along, it seems. “I’m perfectly fine!”
Dad might be drunk, but he’s still strong. He jerks out of Leo’s reach, and the sudden movement knocks the glass out of his hand. It falls, shattering loudly on the floor. The sound’s like a hand grenade, shocking everyone in the room, and we all freeze.
“Okaaay,” Wren says firmly, the first to gather her wits. With a note of resigned frustration in her voice, she directs, “Leo, I got this.” She gestures to Dad with a look of disgust. “Can you get Maria to clean this up and then grab Wyatt’s bags from his truck?” She motions to Mom, cutting me a look so hard that she doesn’t have to tell me to stay out of this. “Mom, can you help me with Dad?”
He’s standing on his own, at least, a forlorn look of confusion on his face as he frowns at the mess of glass at his feet. It’s like he honestly doesn’t understand how the hard material in his hand suddenly got to the floor, droplets of scotch soaking into the cuffs of his pants.
Wren walks over and wraps Dad’s right arm around her shoulder, and Mom takes his left. “Dear, I think you were working so hard that you forgot to eat lunch again.” Still making excuses, or maybe finding ways to make Dad more agreeable, they manage to help him from the room.
“S-s-sorry, son,” Dad slurs, “I should’ve had lunch. Get Maria to make you a plate.” His voice fades as they go upstairs, heading toward not his office but my parents’ bedroom. I suspect he’ll be passed out, snoring obnoxiously, within moments.
“How long has he been like that?” I demand from Leo as soon as they’re out of sight, my eyes still locked on the now-empty stairs.
Leo hums thoughtfully, but he’s not counting days or weeks or months. He’s counting something that doesn’t apply to a lot of people any longer . . . loyalty. “Not my place to say.”
I turn to look at him, realizing he doesn’t look exactly the same. The grooves on the corners of his mouth are deeper than I remember, as though he’s frowned more than he used to, and there’s a tiredness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. But this is one that I can’t let slide. “Leo?”
He licks his lips and replies in almost a sigh. “You should talk to your brother. Things haven’t been the same since you’ve been gone.”
The statement shouldn’t surprise me. I knew leaving would have consequences, but I mostly thought of them in terms of what I’d be gaining—freedom, a fresh start, control of my own destiny.
It’s a heavy feeling to be reminded of what my leaving might have cost back here at home. And that a lot of those costs were going to be paid by the people I love.
“Where is Winston?”
“In your father’s office. Getting Bill around Winston is usually helpful in these situations. That’s why I told him there was a phone call,” Leo explains.
I nod, and walk quickly down the hallway to Dad’s office. I stop short, though, when I see Winston propped up in Dad’s chair with his feet on the desk, phone pressed to his ear. His hair is longer than I’ve seen it before, with flips of length falling over his ears and into his eyes. His nose crinkles as he says, “I don’t care about champagne brands or colors, Cara. Cristal, Dom, Moët . . . don’t care. Ivory, pink, or neon orange like Cheetos . . . I don’t. Give. A fuck.” He’s silent for a second, listening. “Whatever Uncle Jed said is fine unless Avery wants something different.”
I clear my throat and he looks up, half in shock, half in worry he just got caught out doing something wrong. When he sees me in the doorway, he shouts, “Wyatt? Holy shit, bro! You came.”
That sounds like my brother, eloquent as always. Where Wren got the skills to verbally slice and dice at will, Winston is more of a smash-and-trash sort. I’m somewhere in the middle, I guess.
Winston hangs up the phone without another word and rushes at me, grabbing me in a fierce bear hug and slapping me on the back. “You came.”
“Of course I did,” I say when he lets me go. “Not every day my little brother gets married.”
There’s more question there than there should be, but this is Winston we’re talking about. He once proclaimed that he was never going to get married when there were so many women to sample. Of course, he was a mouthy fourteen-year-old virgin who’d just been shot down by his crush at the time, but I thought he’d held on to the sentiment.
“Nope. I’m a fucking goner of the one-and-done variety. Avery owns me—dick, heart, and soul.”
“Romantic,” I summarize with a raised brow. “I want to hear all about this Avery who’s managing to get you down the aisle, but first, what the hell is up with Dad? He came sloshing through the living room like a squirrel who’d been noshing on old grapes off the vine.”
Winston groans, and takes a step back to rub at his forehead. “Again?”
Before I can question that, Wren barrels into the room, her eyes tight and her jaw clenched. “Incoming—Mom’s looking for you both. I’ll hold her off as best as possible. Get out while you can.”
Winston and I look at her in surprise, our brains still computing what she just spit out in one rapid-fire sentence.
“Go!” she hisses.
That’s enough to get us moving, and we hustle through the foyer and out the front door like so many times before. We never had to “sneak out,” exactly. That was part of being a Ford: if you wanted to leave, you did, walking out with your head held high and your shoulders back. Anything less was weakness, and Fords do not show that to anyone, especially family.
You just have to make sure you walk your ass out the door at the proper time. Thankfully, my keys are in the cup holder, right where Leo left them when he grabbed my suitcase from the back seat. I start the truck and pull out at a reasonable speed—to punch it and spin out would only call attention to our departure.
“Wren’s the best,” Winston says from the passenger seat.
“Always was, always will be,” I agree. “Now . . . we talk.”
