Chapter Thirteen

MATTS IS NOT a jealous person.

He grew up good at hockey and bad at girls. He didn’t have much competition in the former arena and was used to coming dead last in the latter. Matts was always picked first for sports teams and never had a date to dances, and he was okay with that dichotomy up until his physical prowess overshadowed the social weaknesses. He may have looked at other guys who flirted easily without second-guessing every other word and felt envious sometimes. But Matts has never been jealous , or at least, he’s never considered himself jealous before. Until he answers his phone one night to Sydney raving about some guy named Paul who’s such a good guitar player and so sweet and totally gets her, and maybe, he thinks, he is a jealous person after all.

Matts feels like a dick about it. Sydney is happy, and he should be happy that she’s happy, even if it’s some asshole named Paul who’s making her happy and not him. She’s been…not sad. Not exactly. The videos from her concerts and interactions with fans are still just as wild and colorful as ever. But ever since the fight after the House of Blues concert, when she’s texting him or talking to him on the phone, she’s been muted in a way that makes something in his chest feel tight. Sydney isn’t built to be quiet or subdued. She’s a feral creature not meant for restraints. And this Paul guy, as much as Matts is loath to admit it, has broken her out of whatever funk she’s been in.

Paul isn’t officially signing on with the band yet, not until he graduates and can join them on the summer tour, but they’ve been talking on the phone and making plans and—

Matts is jealous.

Which is why, in addition to getting Sydney a first-class ticket to Gunnison for the drive, he also buys her a gift.

Matts runs the idea past Devo first, and with his blessing, Matts commissions her a custom drive hat out of Australian wool with a stiff brim, a copper-leather band, and a small clutch of red pheasant feathers laid along the right side. The custom bit is the dark brown burn work around the brim. Blooming roses surround a rattlesnake, curled tip to tail around the crown. Matts sends the hatmaker a picture of the rattlesnake tattoo on Syd’s arm and asks her to match it.

He pays double for a rush order and then tips the lady extra when it arrives two days before he leaves. It’s the most metal western hat he’s ever seen. Matts may not be good at people, but he’s starting to be good at Sydney, and he’s almost certain she’s going to love it.

He texts a picture to Devo, though, to make sure.

Just kiss her already , he answers .

Matts is planning to. Eventually.

When Matts doesn’t respond, Devo texts him again a few minutes later: It’s fucking gorgeous. My birthday is February 8th if you were wondering.

Noted, Matts answers. Thanks.

The following day is the last game of the regular season, and it’s just as brutal as Matts anticipated, seeing as Kuzy, Rushy, and Alex are all out with injuries. The less said about it, the better, which is what he tells Sydney when she gently asks how he’s doing that night.

She doesn’t push, which Matts appreciates.

“Well, I haven’t the time for queries tonight,” Sydney says, with what is probably supposed to be an English accent. “But please, sir, may I have some cursed knowledge?”

Of course she can. She can have anything she wants.

*

AARON PICKS MATTS up from the Gunnison airport in Matts’s dad’s truck, a 1960 white Chevy that’s more rust than paint. The Mexican blanket on the bench seat is new and covers what’s left of the original fabric. The rest is the same: the rosary hanging from the rearview mirror, the can of Skoal on the dash, the peeling seal around the back window. It smells like decades of cigarettes and the air freshener his stepmother uses to try to cover up the smell.

When Matts pulls himself into the passenger seat, he remembers similar movements as a kid when his feet couldn’t touch the floorboards, and he’d slide across the bench to sit against his dad’s side. He’d watch his dad’s hands on the wide steering wheel and the small radio knobs. At ten years old, Matts lived for the three-minute span of time it took to get from the mailbox to the house, when he’d jump out of the passenger seat to open the gate, then scramble back inside after closing it, and ask if he could drive the rest of the way. His dad would hem and haw about it, like it was such an imposition. But he’d nearly always slide along the cracked leather and let Matts clamber over him to perch, half standing, with his butt barely on the edge of the seat so he could reach the pedals and see over the wheel at the same time. Matts would cautiously, earnestly drive them up the pitted dirt road. He’d grin at his father’s approving nod after he put the truck in park beneath the oak tree in the yard, then run up the front steps to tell his mom.

Now, Matts sits on the passenger side, his feet touch the floorboard, and the radio is silent.

“I feel like I should warn you,” Aaron says as they bounce down the muddy driveway, rosary swinging from the rearview mirror. “He doesn’t look the same.”

“What, he’s lost his hair? I figured.”

“No. I mean, yeah, he’s lost some of it, refuses to shave the rest. But he’s also smaller. Lost weight, but…I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like he takes up less space now. You should just prepare yourself. I’ve seen it happen slowly, you know? I’m used to the way he looks. But it’ll probably be a shock for you.”

Matts isn’t sure what to do with that information. But he doesn’t have a chance to ask for further clarification because they’ve arrived; Aaron’s mom—his stepmom—is on the porch, pushing the screen door open, waving.

Matts pulls his bag out of the truck bed and goes to give her an awkward hug. He steps into the kitchen that used to be synonymous with his mother and now is just…a kitchen. Red curtains instead of yellow. An empty wall where the china cabinet used to stand.

His father, shuffling slowly into the kitchen from the living room, cursing quietly about the boot they’ve got him in, pulls Matts’s attention away from the pictures on the refrigerator.

The sight of his father is a shock.

Aaron is right. He’s smaller. Thinner. But “thinner” doesn’t encapsulate the jarring transformation he’s undergone since Matts saw him last.

His father has always been a big man—not just in height but in the way he demanded people’s attention and respect. He had a confidence, both intimidating and reassuring. When Matts was a kid, he thought there was nothing his father couldn’t do. And even after Matts surpassed him in height, somewhere around sixteen years of age, Matts constantly forgot that he was technically the taller of them. His father was a presence.

That presence is now diminished in a way that makes Matts feel unmoored.

For the first time in his life, Matts has to be careful when he hugs his father.

When he does, the smell of him is a second, though lesser, shock. Matts has always associated the scent of tobacco with his father, something he never thought about until now that it’s missing. Now, his father smells of aftershave and warm flannel and something vaguely chemical Matts can’t pinpoint.

“Hey, Dad,” he says, stepping back, uncertain what else to say.

“Boy,” his dad says, “ what are you doing with your hair?”

Matts reaches up to touch the curls that now spill just over his collar. “It’s good luck,” he argues faintly, still trying to adjust. “My scoring percentage is higher when I keep it like this.”

“You look like a damn fool.” His dad’s face is different, sunken, his beard patchy and nearly gone.

“Well.” Matts tries to rally, tries not to look like he’s staring. “Sydney likes it.”

“The girl who’s coming tomorrow?”

“Yeah, that’s her.”

“Doesn’t speak much to her taste, then,” his dad mutters, easing himself into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. His stepmom puts a cup of tea in front of his father with a gentle touch to his shoulder before retreating to the sink—giving them space, maybe.

“Dad.” Matts’s voice, embarrassingly, cracks.

His dad sighs. “I’m assuming someone’s told you already.”

Matts carefully doesn’t look at Aaron. “About?”

“The cancer.”

“I heard, yeah.” And then, because he’s up for pushing his luck today: “I’d like to know why I didn’t hear it from you.”

“Didn’t want you to worry.”

“Dad.”

“It’s hardly a thing. Treatment will be over and done within another month, and I’ll be just fine. Back to normal.”

Matts looks to Aaron for confirmation because that isn’t the timeline they last discussed. Aaron shakes his head minutely, and Matts resigns himself to a conversation he’d rather not have at some point during his trip.

“Listen,” he starts, “I know—”

The front door opens, interrupting him.

“Hey, dipshit,” a female voice yells over the slamming screen door. “Your hellbeast is taken care of, and I made the new feed order.” There’s the distinct sound of boots being dropped on the floor by the door. “Charlie tried to hike the prices on me like I didn’t know full well what you typically pay, but I got it sorted. Are you ready for—oh. Uh. Hi.”

The girl entering the kitchen has to be six feet tall, and the thick blonde hair in a messy knot on the top of her head makes her look taller. She’s wearing a hoodie over well-worn jeans and mismatched wool socks with a backpack hooked over one shoulder. She’s not pretty exactly, but she’s certainly interesting to look at with her high cheekbones, sharp jaw, and shoulders that are probably nearly as broad as Matts’s.

More importantly, Aaron is looking at her with a soft expression that Matts has never seen on his stepbrother’s face before.

“Matty,” Aaron says, “Ellie. Ellie, Matty.”

He shakes her hand and tries not to overthink it. “I thought you were a high school student.”

“Oh, I am,” Ellie says brightly. “A senior. I was held back twice on account of being dumb as a rock. If my mom wouldn’t cry about it, I would have dropped out by now.”

“You’re not dumb,” Aaron argues.

She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, it’s nice to meet you, Matty.” She glances between them. “Y’all have plans tonight?”

“No,” Aaron says. “Matty is going to dump his stuff and then head back out again to pick up his girlfriend. ’Cause God forbid we wait at the airport for an hour and save twenty dollars on gas.”

“Not my girlfriend,” Matts corrects. “And I’ll pay you back for the gas.”

Aaron ignores him. “I’m still free,” he tells Ellie. “If you want to go get set up.”

Ellie salutes and moves through the kitchen toward the sewing room with a friendly hello to Matts’s dad at the table and his stepmom, elbow deep in dishwater.

“What are you working on with her?” Matts asks.

Aaron looks shifty. “Nothing.”

“Math,” his dad says.

“Just a little calculus. She’s got a test next week.”

“Since when do you know calculus?” Matts asks.

“Well, I passed the same godforsaken curriculum three years back.”

“Barely, if I remember.”

“And I’ve watched a couple YouTube videos,” Aaron mutters.

“Oh, have you? Also, you let her call you ‘dipshit’?”

“Nobody lets Ellie do much of anything,” his dad says. Bizarrely, it sounds approving.

“She only calls me that when the others aren’t around,” Aaron says. “She does have some concept of professionalism.”

“They were in 4-H together in high school,” his dad adds. “She started hanging around more last year, and Aaron hired her a few months back. She’s a hard worker.” Which is just about the highest praise that will come out of his mouth. “Healthy girl too. Strong. Got good childbearing hips.”

The last bit is pointed.

“Honey,” his stepmom chides.

“All right, that’s enough,” Aaron says. “She’s an employee, not a broodmare.”

Aaron hands Matts his keys. “You’re picking up Sydney at six, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll”—Matts points toward the stairs—“put my stuff up and head back out.” He raises an eyebrow, jerking his chin toward the sewing room. “Let me know if you two need any help.”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, boy genius.”

*

IT’S CLEAR NO one at the Gunnison airport has the slightest clue who Sydney is. Her aviators are pushed up into her wild hair, and she’s dressed in her typical uniform: black jeans, boots, mutilated Slipknot shirt. The sides of the shirt are cut so deep Matts can see the black lace bra she’s wearing and the tattoos on her ribs. She does this cute little hop when she sees him, then breaks into a run, dragging her suitcase awkwardly behind her, wincing when it hits her heels until she abandons it entirely to hug him.

Matts might pick her up and swing her around a little. Just a little. The guitar case on her back gets in the way, but he doesn’t even care because she’s here and she’s real and she smells fucking amazing, and she’s still wearing his bracelet.

“God, it’s good to see you,” Matts says when he puts her back down again.

“Yeah?” Her palms are on his chest, slid down from his shoulders, elbows trapped between their bodies. Sydney looks at him searchingly, as if she’s trying to decipher what the words mean. He thinks they’re pretty clear.

“Yeah. You ready?” Matts asks, and she takes a step back, collects her bag. She pulls it with her left hand, her right arm nudging against his as they walk to the parking lot. Matts considers reaching for her hand. It’s right there, and he’s reasonably sure she wants him to take it.

But now is not the time, not when, if he’s read this all wrong and she’s not actually interested, it would mean three days of awkward interactions. Or worse, three days of Sydney, uncomfortable, wishing she never came.

“So,” she says once they’re in the truck and back on the main road. “How much do I need to tone things down while I’m here?”

“Tone things down,” he repeats.

She recognizes it’s a question. “Tone me down. I know I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, and I don’t want to cause any problems for you. I’m assuming I should put on a jacket and shouldn’t mention any recent protests I’ve attended? Or my political affiliation?”

“Do whatever you want; I know how to fight.”

“Matts.”

“I’m serious,” he says, and maybe it comes out too hard, too aggressive, but he wants to make sure she understands. “I don’t want you to be anything but yourself.”

“Well, all right, then.” Sydney’s looking at him again as though he’s speaking a language she’s only just started learning.

She hooks her thumb toward the guitar case in the truck bed. “I’ve been practicing some country songs to charm your family. Brought my acoustic.”

“It’ll get used every night if you’re willing.”

“I am. Should probably give me a list of approved songs though. Don’t want to insult anyone’s delicate sensibilities.”

“I don’t think you’re hearing me,” Matts says. “Wear and say and sing whatever you want.”

“So if I wanted to play the Kasey Musgraves song, ‘Follow Your Arrow,’ you’d be okay with that?”

“I’ll sing it with you,” he says.

She smiles.

*

THEY DO PLAY the Kasey Musgraves song.

Dinner is a small casual affair, nothing like it will be the following night when all the folks helping with the drive are there. Tonight, it’s just them—Dad, Aaron’s mom, Aaron, Ellie, Sydney, and Matts.

His dad tells him to play them something after dinner, which is typical, and Aaron notes Sydney brought her guitar. Five minutes later, they’re in the living room, playing “Folsom Prison Blues” and then “Jolene.”

Matts lets Sydney decide what they’ll play and does his best to keep up. It’s only after she’s lulled them into a false sense of security with a few classics that she meets Matts’s eyes, one brow raised like a challenge, and starts “Follow Your Arrow.”

Ellie, who’s been singing along with them, knows all the words, her voice soft and lilting and completely at odds with the rest of her in a way that Matts finds charming. Aaron clearly does too. He sits in his chair with a beer and watches Ellie sing, looking hungry even though dinner’s over. Matts wonders if he looks at Sydney the same way. He thinks he probably does.

Nobody says anything about the lyrics, though his dad’s eyes do get a little narrow at times. But Sydney segues them directly into “Mammas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys,” which actually gets a laugh out of his dad.

Too soon, she’s leaning into Matts, saying she’s beat and needs to get ready for bed. Matts is helpless to look away.

A trio of beauty marks hug the curve of her jaw on the right side. A scar pales a section of her left eyebrow.

When she smiles up at him, it’s—

Simple. Perfect. Life ruining.

If Sydney doesn’t want him, he’s not sure what he’ll do with himself. Leave her alone, obviously, but then what’s he supposed to do? He doesn’t think Sydney is someone you can ever recover from.

She goes up the stairs to take a shower; Matts watches her leave, not even trying to hide it. Ellie is next to slap her thighs and say goodbye, and his stepmom goes to take her own shower at Aaron’s insistence that he’ll take care of cleanup.

Matts helps Aaron in the kitchen, rinsing the dishes he’s washing, trying to fight the wall of fatigue that’s suddenly hit him.

“Okay,” Aaron says after several minutes of working in silence. “I get it. Why you like her so much. She’s really something.”

“She sure is,” Matts agrees. “Ellie also seems—”

“Nope,” Aaron says.

“You’re learning calculus for her. You didn’t even learn calculus for you .”

“No. Stop talking. She’s a high school student .”

“She’s twenty. And she’ll graduate in a month. And I’ve heard Trigger likes her.”

Aaron throws the dish towel at his face. “Goodnight,” he says and heads for the hallway.

Matts grins as he finishes the last bowl. He pulls the plug in the sink, grimacing because, yes, there’s some wet food collected around the drain.

He wipes down the counters, turns out the lights, and then stands at the periphery of the living room, watching for a moment as his dad talks back to the TV playing the end of some baseball game.

“Goodnight,” Matts offers, hand on the stair railing.

His dad leans to the side, squinting at him, and says, with his usual level of tact, “You fucking her?”

Matts rubs the heel of his palm against his forehead. “Jesus, Dad.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“See,” his dad says, more to himself than Matts, “I figured we didn’t have anything to worry about.”

Matts stills. “Why’s that?”

His dad laughs.

Matts doesn’t.

“I’ll allow she’s pretty enough, and she sure as hell can sing, but she’s not really our type, huh?”

Matts does laugh then, a humorless bark of a thing. “Our type,” he repeats.

His dad waves a dismissive hand. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t. Because she is beautiful, and capable, and kind. She is the definition of my type. My type currently has one entry, and it’s her. But she’s also incredibly out of my league. So, no, Dad, I’m not fucking her, but if she so much as showed a hint of interest, I’d get on my knees for her.”

“Enough.” His father’s voice is dangerous.

But he’s right. It is enough. Matts does something he’s never even considered before in the kindling stages of an argument with his father. He walks away. It’s not an argument worth having with him.

He starts up the stairs but pauses at the landing, trying to convince his heart to chill the hell out. Years of arguments have created a Pavlovian response to his father’s raised voice, and it takes a few steadying breaths to convince his body that he doesn’t need to gear up for an hour-long shouting match.

Matts tries to look casual when he slips in the guest bedroom door a minute later. “Hey,” he says.

Sydney sits on the bed, legs pulled to her chest, one elbow slung around her knees, hand curled around the opposite bicep. Her hair is a riot.

Not his type . That would make things a lot fucking easier, wouldn’t it?

“Hey.” She chews on her bottom lip for a second. “I feel like you should know that I chose a very inopportune time to go get a drink of water a second ago.”

He shuts the door and leans back against it. “Shit. Okay. How much did you hear?”

Her gaze is steady. “I heard you say you’d get on your knees for me if I showed so much as a hint of interest.”

He closes his eyes. “I did.”

“Did you mean it?”

He opens them. “I did.”

Sydney stands, long legs bare under the hem of a hoodie she’s stolen from his bag. The shoulder seams hit her mid bicep. Her fingertips barely peek out of the sleeves. He never wants that hoodie back.

She paces to the window and then abruptly changes course to stalk back over to him. She knots her fingers in her hair and then just looks at him. He has no idea what the look means.

“What?”

“Fuck,” she mutters, pulling harder at her hair. “This is a terrible idea.”

“ What ?”

Her arms fall to her sides with her next inhale, palms open, fingers spread, sleeves falling down over her hands. “This,” she says, “is me showing interest.”

It takes him a second. But only a second.

He gets on his knees.

It’s not slow or seductive. It can’t be interpreted as anything other than desperation. He’s not ashamed. Matts catches the back of her thigh with one hand when she startles and tries to step back, then steadies her with his other hand around her opposite hip. He presses his thumb to the sharp jut of her hip bone and tries not to look too pathetic when he meets her eyes.

“Holy shit,” she says, more an exhalation than words. “And you say I’m dramatic.”

“That doesn’t preclude me from being dramatic too,” he points out.

“Preclude. Good word.”

“Thanks.”

Her hands alight gently, uncertain, on his upturned face, palms to his jaw and fingertips to his temples. Her rings are cool points of contact against his flushed skin, and when he doesn’t move, she taps one thumb to his bottom lip and drags it from one side to the other.

“You don’t even know what’s in my pants,” she says quietly.

“I couldn’t care less at this point.” It comes out more breathless than he would have preferred. “Unless you’ve got, like, a carnivorous plant down here. No, I’d still be willing to work with that. I like plants. And the carnivorous ones are evolutionary marvels. I’ve got some cursed knowledge I can share about giant montane pitcher plants if you’d like.”

“Matts.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“I’m serious.”

“Do I not look serious to you?”

She looks at him. Looks at him again in a way that makes him feel somehow more than naked despite being fully clothed. He thinks about refinishing old furniture, stripping away decades of seal layered on paint layered on stain. That’s how he feels—like freshly sanded raw oak, breathing for the first time in years, no varnish, entirely vulnerable, but also entirely himself.

“Terrible idea,” she repeats, a whisper this time. But then she’s kneeling with him, first one folded leg, then the other, knees tucked between his in a far more elegant descent.

Sydney braces her hands on his thighs. Digs in her fingers like she means it.

And then she leans up to kiss him.