I’m cataloguing the pale color there, and the number of kisses it would take to travel from her collarbone to the curve of her jaw. I got started with the count earlier, before Mama interrupted us. And I’m eager to get back to it.
Maybe Zoey meant to keep some distance between us when she asked for a contract. I can understand that. Though I don’t think it’s working.
When she looks at me, Zoey’s eyes are warmer than they’ve ever been, the blue of a tropical ocean I’d like to dive into. Her smiles hold something more, something weightier. And just before Mama cleared the dinner plates, Zoey’s thigh comes to rest against mine under the table. Though it might have been an accident at first, she doesn’t pull away. Instead, like magnets, our legs press together in a hidden leg hug.
“Happy birthday,” Mama says, passing out plates of her famous chocolate pie. Zoey’s has one lit candle in it. “My son said he ruined your birthday. We don’t have to sing, and we don’t have a gift, but—”
“This is enough,” Zoey says, and she’s blinking back tears as she stares down at that sliver of pie.
When she looks up at me, it’s like she thinks I hung the stars. I’ll take it.
Thanks, Mama.
We settle in, scarfing down Mama’s pie, while she continues with the embarrassing stories from my childhood.
“And then there was the bleeding-cow-butts incident,” Mama says with a laugh.
Daddy and I both groan in protest. “Nope. Not this story,” Daddy says.
“What?” Mama asks, blinking too-innocent eyes. “Why not this story?”
“For one thing, we’re eating,” I say.
Mama nods down at my empty plate. “Looks like we’re all finished up. Zoey, you don’t mind a story with a little bit of nature thrown in?”
“Nope. Not at all. Please, continue.”
I wonder if she’ll regret saying that. Dad stands from the table, clearing the plates and starting the coffee pot percolating. He and Mama love to end a meal with decaf coffee, usually out on one of the porch swings. It’s a tradition I’ve missed. It isn’t the same sitting out by my pool alone.
“Well,” Mama starts. “Gavin must have been about nine or ten.”
“I was nine. Trust me. I remember this all too well.”
“Mm. So, Chet and Jeff were three and four. And as we’re walking by the pasture, Gavin wanted to know why the cow’s butt was bleeding.”
Zoey grimaces. The description is disturbing. But I can assure you, at nine years old, the real-life visual was worse. Much, much worse.
“I tried to warn you about this story,” I tell Zoey. “But you wanted to hear it.”
Mama keeps on. “I tried to move on and distract Gavin, but he’s like a dog when he gets his teeth into something. He won’t let go.”
“Some people consider that a good quality,” I say.
“Depends what you’re sinking your teeth into,” Mama says, with mischief in her eyes.
Zoey glances at me, then down at the table. I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking about my teeth nibbling her earlobe or her neck. I take a much-needed swallow of ice water.
“Anyway, I tried and tried to change the subject, but Gavin wouldn’t let it go. So, that’s the day that he learned about the menstrual cycle.”
My father grunts, setting a dented silver tray on the table with four mugs of coffee, a small pitcher of cream and bowl of sugar. I watch as Zoey blinks in surprise, glances at me, then bursts out with laughter that washes over me like a spring rain. Her leg knocks mine under the table, and I knock hers right back.
I fix her a mug of coffee the way she likes, with enough cream to make it a light brown, and set it in front of her. Our fingers brush as she takes it and the spark traveling up my arm is like the jolt of a cattle prod.
Which I actually know about. Because when you grow up with brothers on a ranch, that’s the kind of inside knowledge you learn about: cattle prods and cow periods. I’m like the ranching version of a Renaissance man.
When she’s finally done laughing, Zoey shakes her head at me. “You’re handling this so much more maturely than Zane. That’s my twin brother,” she explains to my mom. “We shared a bathroom, and if he so much as saw a box of tampons on the counter, he’d lose his mind.”
“I’m sure it was harder being the only girl among the boys,” Mama says, and the