Page 7 of Call Me Yours (Lodestar Ranch #4)
CHLOE
By the time I arrived home, it was dark and I was starving. Mom had asked me to stay for lasagna, but that would have meant less leftovers for tomorrow, so instead I made myself a bowl of cereal, peeled open a cup of apple sauce, and called it dinner.
I still had my own work to do, so after a quick shower, I pulled on my pajamas and settled in on the couch.
Even though I was exhausted, there was something so nice about the quiet stillness of my own space.
I’d started renting this place from Miriam, my landlady, three years ago when I started my master’s program.
Aspen Springs was halfway between my parents’ house and the university, which meant I was always commuting one way or another, but at least neither commute was more than thirty minutes.
The bungalow wasn’t very big, but it had loads of charm.
More importantly, it did not have four younger brothers, two nosy parents, and one ghost of a grandmother.
I loved my family, but my god, I had been taking care of them for so long that I just wanted a place to not take care of anyone.
Not even myself, if I didn’t want to. I wanted to leave dishes in the sink without worrying that I was adding to my mother’s workload.
I wanted to eat junk food without worrying that I was setting a bad example for my younger brothers.
I wanted to stop worrying about whether my dad was going to buckle under the stress of caring for us.
I finally fell asleep around 10:30 but startled awake at 3 a.m. with the chest-squeezing feeling that I had screwed something up.
I lay there for a moment, panting, running through the week’s to-do list in my mind.
Had I forgotten anything? Maybe. I knew, logically, that nothing I had done or not done was so bad that I couldn’t fix it tomorrow but tell that to my extremely illogical 3 a.m. anxiety.
Trying to force myself back to sleep was a losing proposition, so instead I reached for my phone.
Ten minutes of animal videos usually calmed me down enough.
I never meant for her to get hurt.
The text notification popped up above a video of a rescue emu farm.
It was from Steven. I knew it in my gut, even though I didn’t recognize the nine digits, and I had never given him my phone number.
I typed back, picking up the thread in an argument we’d been having for a solid year now, even if most of it was only in our heads the whole time.
Chloe
You didn’t mean NOT to. I believe you didn’t realize how bad it would be, but you still wanted her to fall. Do you seriously not understand how truly terrible that is?
Steven
Why do you think I’m awake at 3 am?
The question gave me pause. Did Steven feel remorse? It had honestly never occurred to me that he might actually feel bad about what he’d done. He sure as hell had never acted like it. Before I could formulate a reply, another text popped up.
Steven
You told Stevie I hurt James because she turned me down.
That’s not what happened. I mean, yeah, I asked her out and she said no, but that didn’t matter.
I wanted that promotion, and here was this little girl five years younger than me who got it instead, and when I found out she was sleeping with our boss? I was fucking pissed.
A white-hot bolt of anger streaked through me. James had earned her place at Lodestar.
Chloe
James deserved that job. In case you forgot, no one else got anywhere with Belle, including you. She didn’t sleep her way to the top. She did a better job.
Steven
I fucking know, okay? But at the time, I was just so angry. About everything. But it wasn’t about her turning me down.
Chloe
Should that matter to me?
I typed the words, but the truth was, it did matter. A very small part of me was relieved that he wasn’t that kind of guy. But the larger part of me knew he was still an asshole, no matter what his reasoning was.
Steven
I don’t know if it should matter to you, but it matters to Stevie. She’s been side-eying me ever since you told her.
I snorted a laugh in spite of myself. Thank god he wasn’t here to see it. He didn’t deserve the validation. And then his next text came through and my laughter died in my throat.
Steven
Have you ever done something you can’t take back, no matter how much you want to? You can’t fix it. You just have to live with it like a bad tattoo.
Yes, I knew what that was like. I closed my eyes against the sudden memory. So much blood. Crimson pools of it on the white cotton tarp. The scent of it permeating the air. The acrid taste of it in my mouth.
When I opened my eyes again, the screen had gone dark. A petty part of me wanted to let it stay dark, to let Steven stay in the darkness with it, feeling the heavy weight of his shitty decisions.
But before the thought had even fully materialized, I was already discarding it, typing in my password to wake up my phone. It didn’t matter that Steven was my least favorite person. I would never leave anyone alone in the darkness.
Chloe
You’re not the only one awake at 3 am.
Three dots appeared, winking at me in a wave, then disappeared only to reappear a moment later, like he was second-guessing his words.
I didn’t know what surprised me more: that Steven McAllister was searching for something insightful to say, or that I was waiting with bated breath to see if he could pull it off.
No, not just waiting.
Hoping.
Steven
What, the princess isn’t so perfect after all? I’m shocked.
The words replaced the dots, landing like a balloon pop.
My head tilted as I stared at the screen for a long moment, my thumb hovering.
There were so many ways to respond. I could do the right thing and gently guide him from lashing out to more constructive ways of dealing with his emotions.
If I were his therapist, that’s what I would do.
But I wasn’t his therapist.
And he was such a fucking jerk .
It couldn’t possibly be my responsibility to fix all the man-babies of the world, could it? Certainly not at 3 a.m. when I had my own shit to deal with.
But I wasn’t going to say something mean, either. Because he had texted me first, reached out to me for absolution that wasn’t even mine to give, and that told me exactly where to stick the knife.
So I turned off my phone without another word.