33. Fable

Chapter 33

Fable

I decide on my space cowgirl outfit on Monday, a way to start the day off right. It's all chrome again, just like my jacket, but this material is a shinier cotton version I got at the craft store in town. My fringe skirt is dotted with little stars that glow in the dark. My new black jacket I sewed has painstakingly hand painted stars across it. Every bit of me looks like the night sky. I'd have completed the look with a space helmet, but I couldn't find anything to make it out of, so instead, I have a little jetpack on my back I made from a two-liter soda bottle and some paint. When I show up at the garage in the getup, Trent looks up from where he works on Rhett's truck and blinks.

"What are you supposed to be?" he asks as he leans over the side of the truck.

"A space cowgirl," I reply with a smile as I lean down to pick up Sly. He's heavy in my arms, the fattest raccoon I think I've ever seen, but he's adorable. His little hands tap at my pockets, searching for food. I give him a strawberry from the new basket of them that showed up this morning on my porch. "You like it?"

He shrugs. "It's. . . nice. There a lot of cowgirls in space these days?"

"I don't know," I answer honestly. "I just thought it would be fun to be a cosmic cowgirl for a day. Whatcha working on?"

"Rhett needs a tune up, so I'm changing the spark plugs out. Boring work," he says as if he expects me to wanna leave after that declaration.

"I had to teach myself how to work on stuff, so this is just as interesting to me. I used to change my own oil and even did the spark plugs once. Learned on Youtube," I say, taking a seat in the chair. An apple sits on the side table as if it'd been waiting for me, the same exact kind of apple that's been showing up in my cabin for at least a week now. I glance at it and tilt my head, before looking back at Trent.

"Your dad didn't teach you?" he asks as he focuses on his task.

"Didn't have one." When he looks up at me, I shrug. "My mom was a druggie. She didn't exactly know who donated their sperm when she got pregnant."

"They make tests for that now," he points out.

"Yeah. . . but I don't wanna know." I sigh. "If I could just wipe my past out of existence, I'd prefer to do that."

He straightens and looks at me. "I get that."

I lean forward and brace myself on my knees. "Rhett said y'all are technically brothers."

He studies me, seemingly weighing what he should tell me. "Adopted, yeah."

"If you don't mind me asking," I murmur. "I'd love to know your story."

He shrugs and leans back over the truck, going back to work. "There's not much to tell. I came from a really poor family. Dad was a big German guy, and mom was Shoshone. She lived on the Wind River Reservation until she fell for Dad and he moves her out here. She died when I was young and Dad got hurt at the plant a few years after, wasn't able to work anymore, and I was too young to help. We lost everything. There were a lot of days we didn't have food."

My eyes dance over to the apple and then to the other fruits and food sitting around the shop, always available, always ready whenever he wants. Oh. Oh. Is it Trent leaving food for me? Has he been making sure I always have something around me?

"It didn't take long for the state to get involved when I started showing up to school with my ribs showing," he continues, his tone calm despite the subject matter. "They took me away and I'd never seen such relief on my dad's face. He died a year later. Passed out drunk in a pond I hear."

"I'm sorry," I murmur.

"Don't be," he shrugs. "We all have our origins, and mine led me to Circle Bee. I was in the state system for six years. No one wants to adopt an older kid. I was sixteen and waitin' to age out, figured I'd get a job somewhere. Foster families didn't like me. I was too quiet, too big, too menacing. They passed me from home to home, but at some point, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas came to see me. I thought they wanted someone to work on their ranch for free when they came in, but I quickly learned that wasn't the case. They were saints." He glances up at me. "They officially adopted me after a year."

"But you didn't take their name?"

Trent's surname is Coldiron, arguably a cool one, but Rhett's is Thomas. If he was adopted, his name could have been changed.

He shakes his head. "Mrs. Thomas told me that she wasn't lookin' to wipe my history away. They were trying to show me that there are good people out there." He sets down his wrench. "When they died, it hurt. They were religious, but their god didn't help them. I decided that life just sucks sometimes after that. Good people get shit deals and bad people live forever." He shakes his head. "Life ain't fair, but you can't dwell on it. You'll stew in your anger if you do."

I blink. This is the most Trent has spoken to me since we've met, and rather than being short and to the point, he's giving full explanations. He's either more comfortable with me now or he's making a point.

I shift in my seat. "My therapist says I have survivor's guilt and PTSD," I say, smiling nervously when he looks over at me. "I'm sure Rhett has mentioned my story."

"He has," he answers, reaching into the engine compartment to adjust something.

"For a long time, I questioned why I'm here and Jinx isn't." I look down at Sly where he rolls around on my lap. "I still don't have answers."

"You won't get any," he replies. "Life sucks sometimes." His eyes dip to my leg. "I'm sorry you had to hurt though. You didn't deserve that."

"You didn't deserve your bad lot either," I point out.

He chuckles under his breath. "I did. I do."

"How so?"

He shakes his head. "Just leave it at that." He turns from the truck and wipes his hand with a red rag. There're grease smudges on his arms and his shirt. When he wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, it leaves another little smear there. "How was your date?"

I still. "Why?"

"Just curious," he shrugs.

I hesitate, studying him closely. "It was good. We had a good time."

He nods. "He took good care of you?"

"He did." I wince. "Honestly, I'm still not sure if this is a game." When he raises his brows, I decide I'll just lay it all out there. "I've kissed him. Uh. . . And also Rhett and Colt. They all seem. . . fine with it."

Trent doesn't show any reaction. He just watches me. "What is LARPing?" he suddenly asks when I start to fidget nervously, changing the subject.

I blink. "What?"

"Tell me about LARPing," he answers.

So, I start telling him about the characters I play. He listens intently, asking short questions every now and then. At the end, he stands and reaches down to scoop Sly into his arms from my lap. As large as he is, he makes the raccoon look small despite how chunky Sly is. "It sounds like a lot of work," he finally comments.

"I can be," I admit. "But it's a ton of fun." When he tilts his head, I add, "We could LARP sometime."

He sets Sly on the nearest table and turns toward me. "I don't have a sword."

I laugh. "If anyone could make one, it's you."

There's this tension between us, different from the tension I feel with the others. This is gentle, hesitant, like there's always more just on the tip of Trent's tongue that he'd like to say.

"I never told you thank you," I rasp. "For the other night when we came back from the Boot Skoot."

He stops in front of me, his eyes on mine. His hair is falling out of his tie, and strands hand around his face and along his shoulders. "It's not a big deal."

"It was to me," I murmur. "So, thank you."

He nods. It suddenly feels like I've overstayed my welcome, so I sigh.

"I should go. Jethro has been wanting to go for a walk." I move, but don't take an actual step. "I'll see you at dinner?"

His hand comes out to wrap around my wrist, stopping me. I pause, looking up at him. "Gunnar is a good fit for you, Fable. He'll treat you right."

I frown. "But not Rhett or Colt?"

The darkness in his eyes deepens. "Gunnar is a good fit for you," he repeats.

I study him, the tension in his shoulders, the way he's looking at me as if I'm something wildly unique. "And what about you?" I ask, watching him.

He tenses, his shoulders growing rigid. "What about me?"

"Are you a good fit for me?" I clarify.

"I'm not a good fit for anyone," he admits softly.

I lean closer. "Why? You seem fine to me."

He steps back, releasing me. "Not everything is honeybees, Fable. Sometimes, they're just hornets."

"What if I like you?" I ask, because I have to know. I do like him. I like him a lot. There's something about Trent that begs me to unpeel his layers, to dig deeper, to see inside.

"I'd say I don't know why," he answers. He reaches up as if he's going to stroke my cheek but seems to remember his hands are dirty. Before he can drop it, I press my cheek against his fingers anyway, letting him touch me. He looks at me with such longing, it nearly kills me. "Don't let my brother break your heart, Fable. You're too good for him. You're too good for all of us."

And then he turns away from me and leaves the garage altogether.

I stand in the garage for a few minutes, trying to force my racing heart to calm down, trying to understand what he could mean.

But no answers come to me. The apple on the table mocks me.