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The calm of Rachel’s office is found in the highly stressful work we both undertake on her clients’ behalves.
Three hours later, we’ve finished and have discussed how things will be once I’m in Canada.
“I appreciate you being so flexible, Rachel. I didn’t want to stop working for you.”
“And I didn’t want to lose you. You’re a damn good paralegal.
“I know your grandmother gives you a hard time about your chosen career, but you can tell her from me that it’d be a shame for you to quit.” She pulls open a drawer in her desk. “Here’s a ‘goodbye’ gift from me.”
My mouth rounds when the case reveals a Mont Blanc fountain pen. “Rachel!”
“You’re right about it not being a true farewell, but I have no idea when I’m going to see you again—” Her words cut off with a sniffle.
A sniffle.
Rachel is crying?
I sit there in perplexed silence as my boss cries (while pretending she isn’t) and continues, “You deserve this, and I hope you know how much I appreciate you.”
I clear my throat. “Rachel?”
“Yes, Zee?”
“Would you be okay with a hug?”
She sniffles again, and my day gets weirder when she nods, rounds the desk, and opens up her arms to me.
As I hug my boss a non-farewell farewell, as lovely as it is, it acts like another death knell on my stateside era.
The US might be a crack den in the eyes of Canada, but I’ve loved my time here.
It gave me shelter when I needed it. Provided me with anonymity when I craved it.
And offered me a future when I was stuck in the past.
Whatever my grandmother says, these bikers might be murderers, but they’re also good people.
I’ll go to my grave believing that.
Colton
“You’re insane.”
Shifting my focus from the Hanjie logic puzzle in front of me, I cut my youngest brother a look. “Figured you’d get it more than anyone. That weed farm I uncovered is huge. Power of attorney or not, I’ve already set men on the Bar 9 and?—”
“Stop thinking like the mindless bourgeoisie, Colton.”
Ah, the ultimate insult.
I take a deep sip of my coffee. “I knew reading Marx would make you spout crap like that.”
It’s going to be one of those goddamn days.
“Of course, you’re going to set men on guarding that weed farm. We can’t let asswipes from the city think they can get away with growing pot on our ranches.” He sniffs like I’m a moron.
If so, I’m the moron who did a scan of the Bar 9 and discovered an audaciously large plot of land being used to cultivate weed.
That alone was enough to tell me how disorganized and understaffed the McAllister ranch is.