Page 27 of Whiskey Moon

I take a step closer. “We were best friends. We were in love. And then you just … cut me out without explanation. You can give me the silent treatment all you want, but I’m not leaving until I get some answers.”

“Then you better find some work boots because you’re going to be here a while.” Wyatt finishes pouring the last of the oil before wiping his hands and slamming the hood.

By the time he’s done, I’m already working myself into a pair of oversized coveralls I found lying on the seat of a nearby tractor. I’m swimming in these things and I have no doubt I look ridiculous, but I’m not here to impress him.

A flicker of an amused smile paints his full lips before disappearing completely. For the tiniest moment, I caught a glimpse of the old Wyatt.

“I wasn’t serious,” he said.

“I am.” I march toward his truck, hoisting myself into the driver’s seat. “I’ll drive it down the ramps for you.”

He stands in awe for a second, impressed or shocked perhaps, and then he waves his hands as if to tell me to “have at it.”

Jamming my foot against the clutch and brake, I start the engine and shift into reverse. I haven’t driven a manual in over a decade, but everything feels familiar … the tension of the clutch, the rumble of the engine as it shakes the gear shifter, the scratchy feel of the seats beneath me.

Easing my right foot off the brake, I bite my lip and pray I don’t kill the engine in the next three seconds.

Wyatt’s watchful gaze weighs a thousand pounds right now, but he motions for me to go, and once again, it feels like old times.

A few seconds later, I’ve made it down the tire ramp without killing the engine. I shift into park, set the e-brake, and climb out like the entire thing was no big deal.

Raking his hand along his jaw, he hides a smile. “You’ve still got it.”

Brushing imaginary dust from my shoulders, I shoot him a quick, “That’s because I never lost it.”

“Hop in. We’re checking the north fence lines today,” he says, morphing into Workhorse Wyatt and ignoring my feeble attempt to banter with him.

I climb into the passenger seat, cuff the sleeves of my coveralls at my elbows, and crack the window open as he drives us out of the mechanical barn and toward the road that runs against the perimeter of their property.

Gravel plinks beneath the truck, and from the side mirror, I watch the cloud of dust grow thicker behind us. A decade of hurt and anger mixes with the sheer unexpected joy of this simple moment together. It feels right, being here with him. If I quiet my mind a bit, it’s almost as if no time has passed and the gnawing hurt I’ve held onto all this time fades into the scenery of background.

Maybe he needs to warm up to me before he opens up? He was like that when we first met—quiet and contemplative, infuriatingly reserved. Getting anything out of him was like pulling teeth. But as the days turned into weeks and months and years, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t say around me.

Leaning my arm across the back of the bench seat, I angle my body toward him. “Do you remember the last thing you said to me before I left for the airport?”

He checks the rearview, one hand gripping the skinny steering wheel. “I do.”

“You said don’t be a stranger,” I repeat his old line anyway. He was teasing at the time, trying to make light of a heavy goodbye as he wiped away my tears. “Never thought you and I would be actual strangers one day.”

“I wouldn’t call us strangers.”

And fine, maybe I’m being a tad dramatic. But I don’t know the man sitting next to me any better than I know the Turkish man who lives across the hall from me at my apartment.

“Then what would you call us?” I ask.

“Never been a fan of labels,” he says. “You know that.”

“True. God forbid you ever referred to me as your girlfriend back then.” I gasp. “The horror of labels, am I right? They ruin everything.”

He sniffs a slight laugh but doesn’t give me any more than that.

“I’m sorry about your dad,” I say, switching gears. “Must’ve been hard for you, losing him so suddenly, so young.”

Ambrose Buchanan was a sharp-shooting cowboy with movie-star looks and a commandeering personality. He wasn’t afraid to get dirty and he lived for working from sunup to sundown. He was proud. And opinionated. And he took no shit from anyone, but that was sort of the nature of his existence. He had to keep the farm going and keep those four boys in line. I’d accidentally caught him and Renata in more than a few quarrels over the years, but living and working together while raising a family and running a business surely took a toll on their marriage.

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