It was—aside from the PieHole—my favorite place to be.
Since Quinn spent more time here than she did at her family’s home, she had taken over the drawers and closet in the front guest room. I didn’t mind because when she was here, she made the silence disappear.
With the bedrooms all on the right side of the ranch, the left side was left for a welcoming open floor plan of the living room that feeds into my kitchen. My kitchen would probably give Paula Deen wet panties. Aside from my library, this room is where I spend most of my time—well, when I’m not at the PieHole. I make sure that I can bake here and transport so that I’m able to break up a normally very long workday at the bakery. There really is no smell better than all four ovens in my kitchen cooking away and my ten-foot island covered in delicious pies.
It took a lot of money and tears to completely change what was once my family home. Now the only things left from my childhood are little knickknacks and family photos. But even with all the changes, that ache still roars loud on days like this when memories assault me.
“I miss them, Earl,” I murmur, and give him a good scratch next to his tail.
It’s been almost seven years since they passed, but I still swear I can hear them sometimes. The click of Daddy’s boots when he would come in from a long day working the fields, Mama’s pots and pans clinking in the kitchen, or even their soft laughter and kisses when they didn’t think I was around to see. Not that I ever minded.
When I lost them, this place stopped feeling like home. Even after the remodel, it’s just a house, a shell of the happiness that used to hang thick in that air. It doesn’t matter how many bright and cheerful coats of paint are thrown on the walls, sometimes you can’t force the light when there are too many shadows blocking the way.
“Come on, old man, let’s go get changed,” I tell Earl, tired of feeling sad and sorry for myself, standing from the couch and walking toward my bedroom.
“Meow,” he purrs and I look into his green eyes with a smile.
I continue to pet him as I walk through the house, talking to him in soft tones as his purrs respond to my words. Not for the first time, I realize I’m turning into the crazy cat lady.
“I really need to get out more, Earl,” I muse.
“Meow.”
“Yeah . . . first chance I get Mama’s getting out of the house for some human time.”
“Meow,” he calls out again.
I place him on the end of my bed and he immediately circles a few times before laying down in the middle, like he always does, the king of his domain.
“Maybe the first thing I need to do is get a bigger bed to make up for all the space you take up,” I say with a laugh, reaching behind me to awkwardly unzip my dress. The second the zipper is released, I feel like I can finally take a deep breath. I turn to the mirror and take in my full chest.
Getting a boob job when I turned nineteen was probably the worst idea I ever had. Not only was I dealing with the loss of my parents, but also the depression I had sunk into made me think only of every other heartbreaking thing I had ever experienced.
My lifelong battle to love and accept my body, for instance.
When it became painfully obvious that my boobs would never look more than mosquito bites on my chest, I let a weak moment after the end of another failed relationship convince me I wasn’t enough, and before I knew it I was lying on my back in an operating room getting silicone stuffed into my chest. To be fair, it probably had very little to do with getting dumped and more to do with the grief I hadn’t been able to shake. A person does stupid things when she’s stuck in the fog of painful hurt.
Of course, as luck would have it, I was one of those girls that finished developing in my early twenties. Taking that boob job and doubling it, leaving me with an E cup that was the bane of my existence. Hell, I never even knew there were letters past D in the breast size alphabet until mine morphed out of control. It took me a year with those bad boys before I was back in the operating room. I still have implants, but they’re nowhere near what they were, leaving me with a full D cup. Still, even though they’re not as big, they are big enough to be a pain in my ass . . . or shoulders, neck, and back, rather.
I bend and twist, trying to work out the kinks. I reach behind my head, gathering my thick blond locks together as I grab a hair tie off my dresser. I open my top drawer and reach for the bright red lace bra, covering my naked chest before slipping out of my thong and pulling the matching lace boy shorts over my hips. Just because I choose to dress for comfort doesn’t mean I don’t love looking and feeling all woman with my lingerie. Even if I have to go to extraordinary lengths—and costs—to have sexy lingerie in my generous cup size.
Checking the clock hanging next to the door, I curse myself for getting so lost in my own head. As it is, I’m going to be rushing to get everything warmed up in time.
I wriggle into the first pair of shorts I can find, not even paying attention and I step into them and button them up.
I pull my red PieHole T-shirt off the hanger and yank it over my head, cursing my haste when my ponytail loosens, allowing my thick hair to escape in places.
“Lord have mercy!” I shout when I almost pull my ear off trying to rush yet another ponytail. I feel like the underside of a turnip green with the way my nerves are bubbling over.
And I know exactly what—or, should I say, who—is the cause.
Earl eyes me when I step out of the closet and exhale in a huff of frustration. “What? Quick lookin’ at me like I’m lower than a snake’s belly in a mud rut, Earl! It’s been a long day; I’m allowed to be a little frazzled.”
He just stares a beat before lifting his leg and licking himself.
Grabbing my red cowboy boots off the floor, I sit on the bench at the end of my bed and pull on some socks before pushing my foot inside the worn leather. A vision of sixteen-year-old me, nervously pulling at the knot in my flannel shirt, flashes in my head when I catch my reflection in the mirror in the corner of my room and I quickly beat it back. I’ve had enough of tripping down memory lane and I refuse to give Maverick any more power.
“Love you, baby boy,” I call to Earl and rush through my door, snatching my purse off one of the island chairs in the kitchen.
I start digging inside of my bag while stomping through the kitchen and living room, looking down as I pull the front door open, and cursing the fact that my Jeep keys always seem to go missing inside my purse’s depths.