Every now and then, I think about the life I might have had if my dad hadn’t had his stroke that night and everything came crashing down. If Johanna hadn’t run for the hills and left me with an elderly, ailing father, and his accountants hadn’t called to inquire about the mountain of debt that was slowly crushing my father’s legacy. I’d been blissfully unaware of such things. Johanna would have stayed, maybe. I would have gone to Stanford and pursued a career in psychology or anthropology.
That girl would have texted Clay back and asked him not to leave. She would have told him she needed him, and she didn’t want Stanford nearly as much as she wanted him.
But that girl’s dead and gone, I guess. All that’s left is Howdy Doody’s more garish cousin, Pinky Doody. Or something. I make a face at my reflection.
A riding lawnmower roars to life outside, which means that there’s no more time to fart around. I finish putting my dark hair into the Loretta pigtails, stuff on my pink cowboy hat, and head downstairs. Time to kick things into high gear. I grab another cup of coffee for myself and a bottle of Gatorade, heading out onto the porch just in time to see Old Jimmy, our neighbor, wave as he mows the sculpted lawns of Weston Ranch’s twenty-five acres. Well, kind of mows. More like he drives the mower over the lawn and cuts most of the grass. Not all of it. I like to think that it looks a bit like a cinnamon roll. Or zebra stripes.
Or like a nearsighted ninety-year-old mowed it, which is the case.
It’s too much yard for anyone to tackle, but Old Jimmy’s a fan. He’s the sweetest man and a great neighbor, and it’s not something I can handle on my own. When he volunteered, I took him up on it, no questions asked. I can’t even complain, really. He loves doing the yards just for a chance to come and have dinner with us once a week. He’s not very good at them, but he tries. He tries really, really hard.
Story of my life. Seems like that’s what’ll be written on my tombstone. Natalie Weston—she’s not very good, but she tries really hard. I trot outside to greet Old Jimmy and hold out the sports drink, yelling over the sound of the motor. “Morning, Jimmy.”
He flips the mower off and beams at me, his lined face crinkling. His glasses are already sliding down his nose—no surprise, since the lenses are thicker than magnifying glasses. “Morning, Miss Nat. How’s your dad today?”
I put a smile on my face. “It’s not gonna be a great day, but he might perk up by the time it’s autograph time.” Dad loves having his picture taken, even to this day, and manages to have a few lucid hours for his fans most of the time. “Gonna be a hot one. Stay hydrated, okay?” I hand him the drink.
“Of course. You fix that leaky faucet upstairs yet? Want me to come take a look at it?”
“It’s fixed,” I lie, giving him a cheery expression. “Called the plumber last week.” There’s no money for a plumber, but there’s also no money to pay Jimmy, and I feel bad enough abusing his goodwill as it is. I’d do the lawns myself but there’s absolutely no way I could do the yards and the cleaning and the museum on my own. Plus, I have to stay close enough to Dad in case he trips and falls.
Plus, if he fixes it half as well as he mows the yard . . . well.
“Got a few loose shingles on the roof,” Jimmy comments, unscrewing the lid on the Gatorade and taking a gulp. “You got someone to look at it for you?”
“I know a guy. I’ll call him.” I pat Jimmy on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry about it. Anyhow, I need to get inside. It’s almost opening time.”
Clay
When the limo comes to a stop, a surge of memories comes over me at the sight of the sprawling Western ranch ahead of us.
“What in fresh hell is this shit?” Knox asks, rubbing his beard as he stares out the window. “Bonanza Land?”
“Chap Weston Land, more like it. Supposed to be a museum now.” I tip my baseball cap back and gaze out the window on his side. He’s not wrong about this place being a bit like a movie set—the ranch is sprawling but . . . man, is it ugly as fuck. The lawns look like they’ve been mowed by a three-year-old, and the main house itself looks like a reject from a Western movie. A really old, cheap one. There’s a red Spanish-tile roof over a bright yellow exterior, and a big weather-aged sign shows a picture of the black-and-white movie star Chap Weston welcoming visitors to his home. There’s a gravel parking lot and a few wood cutouts of horses in the distance. It looks different than I remember it from back when I was dating Natalie.
Didn’t remember it being quite so . . . garish. So very . . . Chap Weston–y. I should have expected this, given that I remember coming to this place as a teenager . . . but still, seeing it again is strange as hell. Knox is right—this place is garish as fuck and it looks like it’s gotten worse over time.
“Thought this was the girl that turned you down, man.”
I elbow Knox for sayin’ that shit. He knows good and well who I came after. There’s only ever been Natalie Weston in my life, far as I’m concerned. I’ll flirt with waitresses and buy a girl a drink at the bar if I’m feeling particularly lonely, but no one goes home with me. No one gets my digits. Never been room in my life for anyone but her. Knox knows that.
Never been anyone but Natalie. Even now, thinking about her makes my heart ache, just a little. Growing up, everyone at school hated Nat because she was the rich girl and her daddy was an old, famous geezer with buckets of money. She was all shy and sweet if anyone talked to her, but no one ever did. ’Cept me. I remember how pretty she was, though. How she wore these demure little pink sweaters and had her dark hair all shiny and glossy like a movie star. Her big blue eyes and the shy, reserved smile that she shared with me alone. Her lean little body and the way she kissed.
I remember a lot about Nat.
And I remember the last words Nat ever spoke to me on the night that she broke my heart. “What, you think I should stay here and marry you?”
Shit’s burned into my brain. I can’t forget. And now it’s time to take action again. I’ve let seven years pass. No sense in letting more slip through my fingers. I gesture at the driver, then point at the gravel parking lot that only has one other car in it. “Just wait here for us. I don’t think we’ll be too long.” I nudge my brother Knox. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”
“Can’t believe you dragged me out here to this,” Knox says, but his tone is amused and he’s smilin’. Knox is a weird one. He loves to be surprised, and I’m guessin’ this is a big surprise. I know it is for me. I keep picturin’ classy, prim Natalie in this tourist trap and I’m drawin’ a blank. Maybe they sold the place? If so, they’re still involved somehow—there’s only one Chap Weston, movie star. I know that bastard well. He makes me fuckin’ sick with how he put on this big air like he’s the world’s nicest guy when he’s really a controllin’ jackass and his daughter ain’t much better.
I straighten my baseball cap as I unfold my long body out of the car. I’m wearin’ jeans and an old T-shirt that probably shoulda been washed weeks ago. Maybe I shoulda did something with my beard and overgrown hair, but I ain’t here to impress Nat, I remind myself. Fuck it. There’s no getting through that ice.
I turn to Knox. “Stay out here.”
“Fuck that noise.” He grins at me, rubbing his hands. “I can’t wait to see the inside of this place.”
“You steal shit, you buy it. All right?”
“Thought we were here to put your ex in her place?” He cocks a bushy eyebrow at me.
Damn it. I glance down at my hand, where I have a big R markered in across the back of my knuckles. It’s for “Ruthless” and it’s so I won’t forget. I’ve just always had a soft spot for Natalie. I’m just a big ol’ puss when it comes to her, and she wrapped me around her finger so easily back in high school. Even now, I feel a mixture of longing and anger when I think about how she led me around. What, you think I should stay here and marry you? I rub the R on my knuckles again. “Just stay quiet, then.”
“Oh, I’ll be quiet,” Knox tells me, amused.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans and head toward the ranch-slash-museum. As I get closer, I can’t help but think the place looks rundown. Like a tourist trap that’s seen better days. The garish yellow of the ranch—which I don’t remember, so it must be new—looks faded near the windows. The building’s huge just like in my memories, but one of the windowpanes is cracked on the upper floor, and there’s a few tiles missing at the edges of the roof. The patio furniture set near the Western-style fountain looks old and faded, and the gravel parking lot’s got potholes you could lose a boot to.
Whoever’s running this place needs his ass fired yesterday.
Me and Knox head through the front door, and immediately, Knox makes a sound in his throat. The place is . . . well, it’s hideous. There’s old Hollywood memorabilia, along with kitschy decorations from movies and pictures of Chap Weston everywhere. Cheesy music plays overhead. It’s an assault on the senses.
Off to one side, there’s an old-timey signpost that has two arrows, both pointing in the same direction. One says TICKETS, and the other says GIFT SHOP. I glance in that direction . . . and my heart stops.
It’s her.
Nat.
She looks . . . different but the same. The girl I remember from high school had the prettiest little round face with big blue eyes, a plush mouth, and a dimple that peeked out when I made her smile. I remember those things about her, and those aren’t any different. This Natalie is dressed like an extra in one of the corny movies her dad used to star in, though, and she’s behind the counter at the gift shop, talking to a couple. Her shiny dark hair is pulled into two girlish pigtails and she’s wearing an ugly-ass pink cowboy hat and matching fringed vest. She’s heavier than I remember, too. The Nat I remember was always dieting in high school, obsessed with her figure. This one’s given up on that, I think. She’s all lush curves and rounded breasts, and I gotta say, I like the change.