Mallory is standing by the stove, making breakfast. I want to say something, but I’m brought up short when I see my dad sitting at the kitchen table.
He turns my way at the sound of my boots hitting the wood floor. “Good morning, Eloise.” There’s a smile lifting the corner of his mouth.
“Good morning,” I say once I get my bearings. I expected him to still be in bed.
He doesn’t look much better in the morning light than last night in the pale light of his bedroom lamp. The flannel he’s wearing is loose, no longer having the body mass to fill the fabric. His salt and pepper hair is thinning, cheeks sunken in, the rough beard doing little to hide his weakened state.
“How was your flight up here yesterday?” He asks, tapping his thumb in a steady rhythm on the wooden tabletop. It is the same kitchen table he and I crafted together my freshman year of high school. We’d spent the summer staining the wood—sharing iced tea and talking.
I bite my tongue and settle at the table. I carefully compose my response because I’m sure he doesn’t want a reminder of how sick he is by me asking if he should be in bed and not at the breakfast table, which is what I’d rather say than keeping up the small talk he’s searching for.
“It was an easy flight out of LAX this time. I could do a bit of work on the flight as well, which was nice.” My throat clears, and I wait because there isn’t a single thing I can think of to say next. How is the ranch? He can’t care for it anymore, so I’m sure that’s a difficult topic. The only life my father has ever known is as a rancher. How’s life? Shitty, I’m sure, because well… he’s dying of cancer. Instead of saying anything, I manage a smile.
“Have you met a man in LA? How’s life treating you?” Dad asks.
He swallows the emotions down, the bob in his throat obvious. He’s just as much at a loss for conversation topics as I am, so he’s rambling and saying whatever comes to mind first.
I send him a reassuring smile. We will figure this out. I keep the positive thoughts while I grab his wrist. He lets out a deep breath.
“I’m still single. No one’s caught my eye in a while.” With my other hand, I accept the drink Mallory brings over. “Thank you,” I add then turn back to Dad. “As for life, it’s good. You’d love my roommate. Her name’s EmmaJean, and she’s amazing. Keeps me sane.”
“That’s wonderful.” He looks up to Mallory when she sets his plate down on the table in front of him. I let his hand go. “Thank you, honey,” he says to her, then his gaze shifts back to me. Although his eyes are tired, his words are sharp and clear as we catch up.
“So,” I say and sip my coffee. It’s a bit too sweet for me, but Mallory’s trying, so I let it go. “You’ve still got Maverick working for you, huh?”
“Yeah, he’s been working the ranch for years—knows what he’s doing.” He shifts my way, a dip to his brows. “You two were friends before you moved, right? You two had time to catch up last night?”
“They had dinner together,” Mallory adds and sits next to Dad. “We should invite him over again tonight.”
My dad narrows his eyes at Mallory as they share a secret communication—one I’m not privy to. Her brows lift as her mouth forms a sweet smile.
“Sure, we should invite him to dinner. He eats here all the damn time, anyway,” Dad grumbles. There’s no hard edge to his tone, so I’m sure he likes Maverick coming over.
There goes my heart again, doing silly things when it shouldn’t, just at the mere mention of his name.
I came here with a promise to let the past go, forget the things that caused me so much pain and resentment. Maverick is one of those things I wanted to forget altogether. It looks like he’ll be impossible to ignore, so I have to forget how he affects my heart.
“Do you still take photographs?” Dad interrupts my thoughts, and I’m thankful until the word photograph comes out of his mouth.
My fingers work overtime twisting the bracelet on my wrist. “No, not in a while,” I admit, my gaze cast downward.
“Was hoping you did it as a hobby, at least when I heard you work for that publicity company instead of National Geographic.”
“I don’t even have a camera anymore.”
“You left it here.” Dad’s eyes shift to Mallory, and she jumps up. They share that silent communication again, and I have to shake my hands out—I was squeezing them so hard. “Will you take some photos for me while you’re here? I’d love some new prints to hang in the living room.”
“I can do that.” The promise comes quick, and I press my lips in a thin line. I’d do anything he asks, I realize, because it could be his last request of me.
I haven’t touched a camera in so many years. It was a piece of the old Eloise I left behind in Montana, so when Mallory returns with my camera in her hands, I take a deep, steadying breath.
My camera is perfect—just the way I left it—hasn’t even collected dust in all these years because someone’s taken care of it for me.
The weight of my Nikon is familiar in my hands. I remove the lens cover and flip it over and over in my palm then put it back on. I don’t power the camera on but hold it in my lap.
“It needs to be charged after all these years, but I’m sure it still takes good photos. Your grandfather had the same eye for photography as you do.”
“Thanks for keeping it safe.” My throat is dry.
Dad leans forward, his thin hand grips mine. “It’s what you loved most.”
I nod but don’t speak throughout the rest of breakfast. I left so many things I loved behind that year.
Him. Montana. Photography. Maverick. All pieces of my heart that remained long after I left.
Chapter Four
Maverick
“Can you give me a twenty?” Betsy asks, her tone dripping in sweetness.
My fifteen-year-old sister knows how to play me. That’s not her fault. It’s not like the woman in her life had the best influence on her. Still, I find my hand traveling toward my back pocket.
“What do you need it for?” I ask.
“There’s this school event.” Her head tips down, which hides her eyes from me. I have two twenties ready to go, but I wait.
She’s good at this, I’ll give her that. Problem is, I know it and still fall for her pleading tone. It’s not like our mom is around to help. And I told Betsy she won’t work this summer even though she wanted to. I’m here to take care of her. She’ll focus on her studies so she can get the fuck out of here and to art school. The kid is creative, and she won’t be stuck in Montana.
I place the money in her hand.
She looks up, and a smile spreads across her face. Betsy rushes into my arms, and I squeeze her back. “Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome. Did you get all your homework done?”
“It’s all done,” she says, voice dripping with annoyance, but I catch the way the side of her mouth tilts up. She doesn’t really mind when I ask about homework.
Betsy rolls her eyes and pockets the money. I look her up and down. I note her worn shoes and plan to get her a new pair. It’s hard to remember everything a kid needs, but I’m trying.