Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 60342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
“Then stop.”
“I don’t want to stop making music.”
He leans the broom against the wall. “You don’t have to stop making music. But you can also find a way to have a life outside of it. Laina, you don’t exist to keep thousands of people’s lives turning. And whoever made you feel like that can fuck off.”
“If only I had a reason to have a farrier on tour with me. You could come and tell people that.”
He laughs. “Find a way to get horses into your show, and I’m there.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
We exchange a smile.
“I’ll tell you what,” I say, stretching my back. Damn, this is hard work. “You dump that load of crap wherever you put it. Then come back and I’ll clean out the next one without complaining if you tell me stories.”
“About what?”
I shrug. Normal life. “I don’t know. Tell me what you do all day. Tell me why you shove all of your receipts into one drawer in the kitchen. Or explain why you have twenty-one cans of tomato soup.”
“You really did go through everything.”
“I told you I did.”
He narrows his eyes, trying to decide whether I’m joking. I didn’t go through everything in his house. But I’m not telling him that. I like to watch him squirm. It’s fun. He’s fun.
How could something that came so naturally between us for years still be there? How can this man make me feel more beautiful in pink boots and horse shit than a team of experts can make me feel in glam and couture?
It’s the mystery of Luke Marshall.
“Walk with me,” he says.
Luke pushes the soiled bedding out the far side of the barn. The sun hits us immediately, warming my face. Man, I’ve missed the sun, too.
The realization that I haven’t relaxed in the sun more than a few times over the past few years wallops me. I’m normally in a studio or rehearsals. Sometimes I’m in bed due to a late meeting and then wake up and scramble to start the day. Even if I have a day off and am in a location to enjoy the sunshine without skyscrapers, Tom’s voice is in my head about avoiding the sun so I don’t screw up my complexion with freckles and sun damage.
How did I put up with his shit for so long? And how does no one else in the world see him like that?
We move quietly down a path until we come upon a manure compost pile. He deposits the fresh load onto the mound.
“It’s been a long time now,” he says as we return to the barn. “I can’t truthfully remember why at this point, but everyone was saying the world was going to end.”
We slow as a butterfly flutters along in front of us.
“I thought it was bullshit. And I was right,” he says, chuckling. “But Gavin believed it. He had a solid six months where he was certain the world was ending due to some old calendar someone found somewhere. I don’t know. It was ridiculous.”
“I never imagined Gavin as a conspiracy-theory type.”
He snorts. “If Gavin loves two things, one is beef jerky, and the other is a good conspiracy theory.”
“Good to know.”
“We all blew him off. Mallet even left the family text thread at one point because Gavin would start the day with a countdown to the end—and he was dead serious.”
“Oh, wow,” I say, laughing.
“Chase had to threaten him to shut up around Kennedy because he was starting to freak her out. As this very random date on the calendar approached, Gavin started showing up at our houses with … stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“I think Chase got cases of Pop-Tarts and something really off the wall. Pineapple juice, maybe? I can’t remember.”
I laugh, gazing up in appreciation of Luke’s rugged profile.
“Kate lived close then, and I think she got something like tortilla chips and baked beans,” Luke says. “Mom and Dad got those little wieners in a can.” He looks at me and grins. “A lot of them.”
“I can see ways of whittling down the Pop-Tarts. Pineapple juice is good in mixed drinks. Tortilla chips and baked beans can be used. I mean, it might take a while, but you could use those in everyday life. It’s the wieners for me.”
“There’s a joke there, and I’m letting it go. I want you to know that.”
I shove him, making him laugh. “Is this story going anywhere? Or did you want me to walk into a wiener joke?”
“I was trying to get to the tomato soup.”
“Well, get there, then.”
He pushes the wheelbarrow back into the barn.
“That’s what I got from Gav—tomato soup. Twenty-however-many cans of it,” Luke says. “Definitely better than the wieners, but I would’ve loved those Pop-Tarts. I tried to barter with Chase, but he wasn’t having it. He said it was the only useful thing Gavin had ever done for him, and he and Kennedy were eating them. I’m stuck with the cans of soup that have probably expired.”