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Riley

Syd didn't say much on the way back from Harts' … fucking mansion. And as much shit as I had to say, specifically about the fact she slept in a bed with Lily and her hot daddy until I woke her, I'm not one of those who throws stones at glass houses.

Syd knows shit. Specifically, she knows shit from our college years, and I don't really feel like going back to those times.

As I pull into the parking lot to drop her off at her pale pink Jeep, which is totally Syd, she clears her throat and in her teacher voice, says, "I know that was hard for you."

"Not gonna lie and say it wasn't." I grin.

She arches a brow. "You know there was a child between us, right?"

And now I have to say, "Which is probably why you don't have one in you right now."

"He's fuck hot, and I may have considered for a moment what it would be like to be a step-mom, but he's very much in love with his ex. And that is"—she clutches her imaginary pearls and lays a palm to her heart—"just so touching."

"Tell me you want to get nakey with BDB without telling me you want to get nakey with BDB."

I see the wheels turning inside that pretty blonde head of hers and reach over to pet her.

Sadly, she sees it coming and bats it away. "I'm not stupid."

Just clueless , I think but don't want to press the point, seeing I'd really like to get home and shower off the smell of Harts' … home.

"Big Daddy Boone may be a fuck boy, but I do believe he's a real good dad."

"You don't think he'd be a faithful lover?"

I feel my brain actually stutter as I try to figure out how the hell to unpack that and answer it in a way Syd needs me to.

"To Lindsey, to keep their family together, yeah, I can see him being that guy."

"Like Cody and Drew," she states.

Fuck me , does she not understand that dynamic?

She sees it and addresses it face changing colors. "And Dean. I'm not stupid. I just?—"

"Can't say it without turning bright red?"

"It's just"—she pauses—"very unconventional."

"She's living the dream," I note.

"Love is beautiful when it's true. I believe theirs is, I see it. But I can't imagine sex with two men."

"Can't imagine?" I hold back a laugh. "Women fantasize about it. It's hot."

"It may come as a surprise to you, but I like a little bit of jealousy. I like my man to look at other men with his teeth bared, warning them I'm his. I don't want my man to chub up at the thought of sharing me with anyone else."

"Makes sense."

She unbuckles and clears her throat. "I know it's different when all three are in love. They're not Mic?—"

"No, his name doesn't get spoken. He's Officer Foot Fungus from now on."

She smirks as she opens the door.

As she slides out, I call to her, "Might wanna let that warm up, Syd."

She tries and fails to open the door.

"Hit the remote start so it unthaw a bit, and let's go grab some coffee at my place."

I turn off my Jeep, climb out, and we head around the barn to get to my place.

As I tap my code into my door, Syd asks, "Have you two agreed on where you'll live when you get married yet?"

I walk in and see a fire going in the fireplace. Thank you, Lo.

We both start removing our boots.

"He'll come around to loving the silo, and then, someday, I'll have to admit that it's probably not big enough to raise kids in."

"You're getting married in just a little over a month; don't you think it should be agreed upon already?" she asks as she steps out of hers and walks to the fire, holding her hands out to warm them.

"He's got this semester and next, and I know everyone else has a problem with him living on campus until he graduates, but I don't. He needs to stay focused. It's law school."

She sits down on my fabulous camel-colored leather couch, grabs my red and white Holstein-colored blanket, and yawns.

I do the same as I walk the ten steps to my kitchen. "You need coffee."

"Maybe I need a nap."

"Don't you open soon?"

"I posted that we'll open at three due to the weather." She yawns again. "Might open at two on the weekdays and ten on the weekends. More than three-quarters of the business comes from online orders. With the new freeze dryers, it cuts down on time. I don't need to be there as often all the time, just the busier season."

"We've gotten more online orders lately, too."

"Common denominator is Lo's web designs."

"She'd disagree." I point out.

"She needs to acknowledge she has talent and accept a compliment."

Pot meet kettle , I think, but don't say because we both packed on a few pounds over the past few years. College will do that. I happen to love my curves; hell, I even love my little belly that now covers the little college athlete abs I had so painstakingly worked on creating. Syd, not so much.

I wanted to be softer on the outside, secretly hoping maybe one day I will be softer on the inside, as well.

I decide to forget the coffee and embrace the snow day feel we have going on. I head over to the other side of the couch and hunker down. Lord knows I couldn't sleep last night.

Syd throws part of the blanket over me. "I miss this."

"Me, too," I admit.

"I told you she's sleeping," Lauren snarls.

I stretch as I sit up and look over the back of the couch at her, wondering what's going on.

"Hey." I yawn and stretch before sliding out from under the blanket. "You're out early." I cock my head to the side when I see Brett's jaw tighten. "Everything okay?"

"The weather's shit," he answers, glancing at Lo, then Syd.

Syd tosses the throw blanket over the back of the couch before stepping to me and giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. "See you Sunday."

"Um, before then, please." I titter. "And if the roads are shittier than they were, you shouldn't be leaving."

"They're fine." Brett rolls his eyes.

"Bipolar Brett's back," Lauren grumbles under her breath.

I could kick her in that smart ass of hers, but he doesn't seem to have heard her.

Brett continues, "Just go slow."

As soon as they leave, his eyes narrow, and through clenched teeth, he asks, "Where were you last night?"

I shake my head. "We're not going back to Blue Valley High and the disfunction that two teens in love bring to a table."

"Answer the fucking question!" he roars.

The fact that him yelling at me doesn't affect me is comical. This is so Brett in high school.

"You're fucking ridiculous."

He points his finger at me. "You were at Harts' house."

I point mine right back but speaking evenly, "Syd and I brought Lily Boone's lost stuffed animal from here to there because she and Boone were at Harts. Hart dropped off Grimes, and Boone called him, asking him to come see if it was here. The roads shut down before we could leave."

"Bet it broke your heart to stay in his mansion on the lake."

"I know you may have a hard time understanding this,"—I throw my hands out wide—"but this place is my mansion."

The way he looks around and huffs pisses me off.

"You need to leave because I?—"

"I told you the roads were shit."

"And you told my cousin, one of my very best friends, to just go slow. I suggest you do the same."

"We're weeks away from becoming man and wife, and this is how?—"

"I'm getting pissed and telling you?—"

"At least you're getting something, Ry!" he cuts me off.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" he snaps.

"Don't say things you can't take back."

"Stop acting like you don't know he wants to fuck you!"

"How the hell am I supposed to know what Hudson Hart is thinking?" I throw my hands in the air. "You know what? I don't want to know. What I'd like to know is why my fiancé is acting like he did a month before senior prom when he broke up with me and went out with Gina Thomas!"

"Here we go with you bringing up the past," he says, acting as if he didn't start it.

"And here you go, switching the script, acting like I'm the problem." I open the door. "I need you to leave."

"What are you going to do, hide in here and feel sorry for?—"

"She said leave," comes from a deep voice that's equally as terrifying as it is comforting.

"This is ridiculous, Riley," he mumbles as he tucks tail and walks out my door. "You mess up, and it's my fault again?"

Dad steps in through the door and slams it behind him.

"Morning, Dad. What brings you by?" I smile up at him.

He pulls me into a hug. "Salting and sanding the parking lot so you can open up. It's Wednesday; Mom's doing hot mom shit."

"Is she wearing pink, too?" I ask, walking toward the coffee maker.

"It's Wednesday, of course she is."

I'm not sure why moms get all the backlash from their children, well, mostly daughters—okay, whatever, I was a dick, and in my head, I am trying to drag someone with me. At least I can admit it … to myself … now.

Regardless, for some reason, when I started dating, I wanted her as far away from me as I could possibly get from her. She was the enemy; she could never understand what I was going through. In those few moments, when I was not acting like a rag and things were good between my boyfriend and me, I told her how amazing he was. I know I romanticized everything, painted the picture in more vivid colors, made it grander and so pretty that I actually believed it.

In retrospect, and now that I'm of an age where my brain is fully developed, I wonder if it was because my boyfriend was being a dick, or me suspecting he was cheating, or liked someone else more than me, or if it was actually because my trauma was much less … traumatic than hers when she was my age.

Picture if you will: on one side of the road, there is an ever-blooming garden with bright vibrant colors, beautiful birds chirping overhead, soft giggles from children playing in the distance; and then, on the other side of the road, a frost-covered graveyard where flowers no longer bloom.

It was actually her, Jade Ross Brooks, and her overuse of the term "same boat, different ocean," that brought upon this realization—the realization that all of our journeys are somewhat the same. We're born, we learn to walk, and if you're lucky, you feel safe, warm, and never go hungry. But even if we do, the journey is the same.

We go through elementary school, at least on this side of the ocean, and we all experience separation from our parents, some more traumatic than others, but again, it's part of the journey. As the journey continues, we will all eventually get our hearts broken and fall in love with someone incapable of loving us back. We'll lose friends and miss them even when we gain others. Or maybe they were not lost, but we walked away from them so that we were able to move on with life and step away from toxic relationships. But unless we address the issue, they're still there; they're still with us.

By the time we get through college, there's a great chance we've lost someone, and by the time we get married, there's a great chance that we'd have to lose part of ourselves. And then, when we have children, none of that matters. If we're lucky, all of those souvenirs, wanted or unwanted, from our journey that we have packed in an old-school backpack or suitcase without wheels—since that would be the hardest to bring along—we'll realize we do not have time or the mental capacity to keep that bitch out in the open.

That's where I am now. Well, where I was until Brett decided to step back in time and dump my emotional suitcase all over my fucking favorite throw rug.

"Got a question for you, Ry," Dad says from right beside me. I was so deep in my head that I didn't even realize he was there.

"Not sure I'm in a place where I can answer the question, Dad, but I'll give it a try."

He hip-checks me, pushing me out of the way, and begins making coffee in the machine he swore was too complicated. "Is it a one-lumps or two-lumps kind of day?"

Tears sting my eyes, threatening to spill, but I'm not afraid. I've long since figured out how to make that stop, so I answer, "I'm going to start with two, probably gonna add a squirt, or several, of chocolate, and a squirt or two of caramel. Then there's a really good chance that I'm going to have to open the fridge to get out the whipped cream to top it off."

"The thing about morning coffee, Riley, is, one day, you're gonna realize the best part of it isn't the sugar, the syrups, or even the whipped cream that makes it so good. You're going to look across the table and realize that the company you're keeping is what's most important."

And that's what we do. Dad sits across the table, drinking his black coffee, while I drink my coffee with two lumps of sugar, and we talk about the fucking weather.

I stay in my bubble of peace, doing laundry, cleaning my already clean house, and listening to one of Mom and Dad's old 90's mixtapes.

And that's all well and good, perfect actually, until there's a knock at the door, and I open it to the UPS man bringing me a giant box containing my freaking wedding dress.

"I'm not going to cry. I promised myself I was not going to cry, but Riley, you look absolutely gorgeous," Mom says with her hands to her chest. Those blue eyes that she didn't give me— are sparkling.

"I'm going to have to agree with you"—I pause, knowing that if there is any time to retire her actual name from my mouth and call her mom again, this is it—"Mom."

It was said so softly that she should not have been able to hear it, but she did. She heard it because it's important to her.

"I'm not going to push or expect that was an invitation to pry into your life. I won't do it. But I will tell you that I love you, no more and no less, regardless of what you call me."

I decide to place this conversation on the flotation device so it does not sink any deeper than it already has. And trust me; it could sink like the fucking Titanic .

"You should know better than to say something like that to someone like me. I'm not one hundred percent sure what chromosome holds the sarcasm, but I am one hundred percent sure it came from you."

She laughs the way Mom always laughs. "I'm not even gonna pretend that's not true. I will tell you something just so you can hold me accountable. I plan to pack that shit away before I have grandkids."

Looking at myself in the mirror, I turn sideways and ask, "Is it weird that it feels selfish of me to want as many kids as I do?"

"No, not selfish. The world changed, and that is how most people feel. Back in my day, you always heard people saying they wanted as many kids as they could afford. And when your kids are your age, it'll be something different. But the fact is, it doesn't matter how many you have. You could have one, or you could have ten. I know my grandchildren will be loved by you, protected by you, taught by you, and they won't be unhappy."

"Yeah, they will until about ninth grade when they run full speed into puberty's brick wall and turn into little assholes for"—I pause for dramatic effect—"how long was it that I treated the most important woman in my life like absolute?—"

"You didn't treat me any differently than any other girl who runs face-first into the puberty brick wall," she jokes.

"I love you, Mom."

"I never doubted it." She laughs. "But I do doubt the ability for you to keep that unstained if you don't take it off, hang it back up, zip it in that bag, and put it in your closet."

"Oh, you're good."

We both laugh, and then she helps me out of my dress, hangs it on the hanger, and places it in my closet.

Brett and I made up after a twelve-hour texting argument. He promised me that he'd try not to be jealous if I would try not to act like he was an idiot for seeing the way men look at me here at the brewery.

That was it. All good. Two thumbs up. Moving on…

Brooks Barn and Brewery is open four days a week, every week, with the exception of one week a year and that is next week. So, for the past four days, the entire Brooks family has been preparing for the occasion so that we can enjoy ourselves with all the familiar faces that come in from out of town to hunt and the fresh faces that will no doubt be joining them.

Unlike Brett and I, Lauren and I seem to be in a slump, which means she's not talking much. I suspect she's upset with me for not booting Brett to the curb. What she will someday understand is that compromise is a big part of a relationship, and communication, no matter how loud, is also something needed to maintain it.

I choose Brett the same way she chooses to wear her Blue Valley field hockey sweatshirt damn near every day.

Brett will be a good dad. He will teach his kids how to throw a ball and how to play golf, which is a good thing because I will not be teaching them how to play because golf is fucking boring. Which is another reason I love Brett—he knows this about me, he knows I am never going to be his partner on the greens, and he still wants to marry me. There are other benefits, like he's not interested in the brewery, and he's agreed to put in writing that what's mine is mine, what's his is his, and what will one day be ours together will be ours. And although it is not expressed, because nobody would understand why it's important to me, is that Brett is never leaving here. His life is here just like mine is, be it together or separately. So if things took a turn, I would never have to worry that my kids would be moving across the country when they inevitably chose their dad over me.