Bide (The Sun Valley Series Book 2)
Bide: Chapter 3

I was twelve when Serenity Ranch became mine and my sisters’ official home.

Even then, when I was young and naive and still full of childlike hope that my parents would get their shit together, the name felt ironic to me. At the time, it didn’t feel very serene. Not when our life was nothing but an endless stream of turmoil, full of adults who didn’t love us nor care enough to pretend. Despite the rolling green hills and the postcard-like scenery, the latest set of people tasked with raising us ensured, through thinly-veiled insults and painfully obvious disdain for their new position as guardians, ensured serenity was inconceivable.

It was maybe half a year after our mother dropped us on her parents-in-laws’ doorstep that the name started to make sense. When our grandparents left us for the first time of many, the eggshells we’d been treading suddenly disintegrated, and home finally formed a meaning for us. We discovered real stability, security we’d never truly had before, a safe haven for us to grow up. Odd things to get used to after so long lacking but we did. We settled. Threw down some roots. Grew comfortable enough to make our own traditions.

One of them; the summer party Lux insists on throwing every year. Midsummer, she says, though I’m not entirely sure she knows what that even is; my sister was a fairytale lover in her childhood, and I suspect she read about it in one of her little books.

Wherever it came from, it’s her thing. Her expensive, loud, over-the-top thing that started as a way to piss off our grandparents—or to get them to notice us—and morphed into something more. Something that thrived and blossomed and infiltrated our little community, feeding into Lux’s inane need to be useful, to be needed, to help. To hold the entire world on her shoulders and act like she isn’t a stiff wind away from crumbling.

She’s doing it now, floating around the crowded yard, a smile on her face as she mingles and passes out drinks and refrains from actually enjoying the event she painstakingly planned.

I sigh at the sight of her.

I feel tired at the sight of her.

Even more tired than I already feel because unlike my sister—unlike all of my sisters—a social butterfly is not something I could ever be described as. It’s fucking hard, this socializing shit. Harder when you no longer live in the small town you call home because your return is practically headline news, worthy of intense scrutiny and endless questions. And it’s hardest when you tote two handsome strangers home with you.

All night, there’s been a nonstop train of people pretending they want to catch up when really, they want a quick introduction. Personally, I’m not a fan of feeling like a damn circus attraction but Nick and Cass? To no one’s surprise, they fucking love it. Preening and prancing and puffing their goddamn chests, they greedily lap up the attention from their admirers.

It’s when the number of girls I went to high school with asking for Nick’s number hits double digits that I reach my limit. Luckily, I don’t need to fake an excuse to leave; not a soul notices when I slink away, my presence, or lack thereof, shadowed by the shiny light my friends permanently exude.

My breath of relief sounds in unison with soft equine snorts as I seek refuge in my favorite spot on the whole ranch. The musty silence of the barn greets me like an old friend, as do its five permanent occupants.

They’re an odd mirror, the Appaloosa horses taking up half of the stalls. A parallel. Unwanted by their original owners because of their maintenance and the odd flaw—a muddled coat here, a limping gait there. Strong, though. Resilient as hell. Powerful if given the chance.

Despite the imperfections, they’re the most expensive things on this ranch, and I can never quite tell if it’s tragic or hilarious that the beautiful creatures are named after a meddling group of cartoon characters. Lux went through a Scooby Doo phase right around the time our equine counterparts joined the family, and contesting the wishes of Alexandra Jackson is an almost impossible fight to win.

Thus, Scooby, Velma, Shaggy, Daphne, and Fred were christened.

I run my fingers through Scooby’s—the stallion I chose as mine—mane as I pass his stall, cooing a hello as I grasp the ladder leading to the loft and hoist myself up. As I lean against the stack of hay bales stored up here, legs dangling over the edge, I replace myself feeling grateful that at least, amongst the chaos of renovation, this one place hasn’t changed.

It was little Lux and I’s hiding spot. Where we fled to when our grandparents were on a rampage or when the house felt too full or when we just needed to breathe. So when I hear soft footsteps and creaking wood, I assume it’s her seeking me out, coming to drag me back to the festivities.

When a head of mousy hair comes into view, closely followed by a pair of pale brown eyes, I stifle a groan.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” my ex-girlfriend croons as she crawls toward me, perching gingerly on the ledge with her thigh pressed against mine. “You weren’t gonna say hi?”

Honestly, no. I wasn’t. I’ve been actively avoiding her for this very reason; I can’t take the unrestrained hope, the blatant want for something that no longer exists.

My smile is as weak as my effort to lie, “It’s been a busy night.”

Caroline’s expression dulls slightly, my answer clearly disappointing her. Throat bobbing with a quiet sigh, the skirt of her yellow sundress rustles as she folds her hands in her lap, the smallest furrow to her brow as she regards me. “You look good.” The compliment is soft, hesitant, as though she’s unsure whether or not she should make it.

“So do you.” And she does. Always has; I could never believe such a pretty girl was remotely interested in me.

It was, is, the personality that always left something feeling amiss. Our personalities. Not a clash but an eerie likeness; quiet, harboring shy tendencies, agreeable for the sake of not causing problems. We never argued and that was the problem. The absence of passion. The lack of fire.

Lux’s previous quip about needing slash-proof tires? Hilariously improbable because I’m convinced anger is not an emotion Caroline is capable of.

She confirms my suspicions as we chat amicably like it’s not stiflingly uncomfortable. Like she shouldn’t be pissed as hell; I broke up with her a couple of months shy of graduation with very little explanation—I believe the words ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ were used—before fleeing town, and in the year that followed, I actively avoided her every time I was in town. If the roles were reversed, I’d be irritated.

But she’s not. Not even a little. Hurt, clearly, but accepting of my decision, so much so that she’s willing to sit here and exchange pleasantries that make my skin itch.

“So, you’re home for the summer?”

I hum in confirmation, restraining a wince because God, the telling expectation in her tone is too much. So is the fraction of distance between us. The fingers drumming against her thigh, occasionally brushing mine. The feeling of her breath brushing my shoulder.

“Do you think,” don’t do it, Caroline, please don’t do it, “we could hang out sometime? Bishops still does those wings you like.”

There’s not an ounce of subtlety, not an inch for misconstruing her question; Bishops was our regular date spot. When I drag my gaze upward to meet hers—I’ve been staring at my thighs for the past ten minutes, scared what eye contact will bring—the look in her eyes makes me feel like I’m a grouchy old man about to kick a goddamn puppy.

“Caroline,” her name is heavy on my tongue, tinged with something bitter that tastes an awful lot like guilt, “that’s not why I came home.”

“I know.” Her tiny recoil is hidden well, her wince covered with a drop of her head. “I just thought we could…” She trails off, chewing on her bottom lip, tendrils of hair escaping her braid and flying around her face as she shakes her head quickly. “Never mind. You’re right.”

It’s quick, the scramble as she gets to her feet, practically throwing herself down the ladder before I can get a word out. She flees my presence, a flurry of rapid blinking and watery eyes and strained noises, and as I watch her disappear out the barn doors and rejoin the crowd, I can already predict the topic of conversation in our tiny, nosy town for the foreseeable future.

Great.

“Oscar! Hurry the hell up!”

I cringe, both at my real name and at the volume of my eldest sister’s voice as she raps her knuckles on my bedroom door. Once, twice, three, and four times until I’m groaning, grabbing my backpack with one hand and ripping open the door with the other. “Stop yelling. I’m right here.”

Fingers yank my hair as I brush past, and I twist to slap Lux’s hand away. “Finally,” she huffs dramatically, redirecting her attack to my back as she shoves me down the hall. “We were about to leave without you.”

Ha. More like her impatient ass was about to herd everyone away without me.

“Sorry, Mom,” I quip, flicking the godawful floppy hat sitting atop my sister’s head.

“Piss me off this morning, Oscar,” hisses her dry reply. “I dare you.”

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

Ratty old Birkenstocks clip the back of my heels as Lux shoves me again, her sarcastic laugh echoing off the walls. “Someone woke up to our sister passed out on the bathroom floor reeking of beer and covered in her own vomit.”

I don’t need clarification on which sister; a certain fake blonde has been inexplicably mad at the world lately and taking it out on us. It turns out the enthusiastic greeting I received at the beginning of summer was a fluke; Lottie is a fucking nightmare.

An alcohol-drinking, curfew-skipping, lip-giving nightmare.

The first time I caught her sneaking in past curfew, I labeled it a youthful indiscretion. The second time, I let her off with a warning. But the third time, when red eyes and wide pupils plagued my little sister, I acknowledged the problem.

What was meant to be a reprimanding but supportive confrontation quickly became a screaming match. The house filled with yelled reminders of how we’re not her parents, accusations of ruining her life, claims of hatred. Lux screamed back, calling her every name under the sun, asking if she thought we wanted to be her parents, if she thought she wasn’t ruining our lives, if she thought we loved her a whole lot right then.

They’ve been walking on eggshells around each other since then, both acting like they’re not overwhelmed with guilt and regret.

So, I’m not surprised when, upon being unceremoniously prodded into the living room, Lottie is nowhere to be found. Everyone else is here though, looking as disheveled and tired as I feel, as though they too were dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn on their one day off.

A day spent at our favorite creek hidden near the Northern edge of our property—where Serenity bleeds into the dense, beautiful forest immortalized on many a sketchbook page—sounds nice until you’re awoken by shouted threats and banging pans when the sun is still kissing the horizon.

My poor, victim-of-circumstance friends greet me with simultaneous yawns, Nick’s face like thunder while Cass remains in his permanent state of mild amusement. “Your sister is bossy.”

I grunt my agreement. Understatement.

We follow my bossy sister towards the barn, where the already tacked and ready to go horses proof that her work today did not begin at annoying her siblings out of bed. Any reprimand dies on my tongue, replaced by a stifled laugh at the sound of my friends’ quiet groans, the instant tensing of their shoulders, the grumbled, undoubtedly explicit Portuguese; it’s safe to say my city-bred friends have not enjoyed getting acquainted with life in a saddle. Hell, even I had some trouble the first week, jelly legs and stiff fingers plaguing me as I got used to hours on end atop Shaggy after months not riding.

It was a welcome relief when muscle memory finally kicked in. I’m not sure what was more painful—the aching muscles or the mockery from my sisters.

“Shut the fuck up.” Nick cuts me with a glare when I don’t quite manage to keep my amusement at bay. In my defense, my oversized, suavely coordinated friend awkwardly clambering atop an equally unhappy recently rescued Percheron named Princess is a sight no one could resist chuckling at. “Go make some more girls cry.”

Jesus Christ. I knew telling my friends about the Caroline incident was a bad idea.

A half-hiss, half-laugh of a noise escapes Cass, his shaking head doing nothing to hide his grin. “Because you, Nicolas Silva, have never made a girl cry.”

“Happy tears,” Nick drawls an amendment. “Very, very happy tears.”

Cass blinks, amused expression dying. “I have never wanted to know anything less in my life.”

Ignoring our friend, Nick fixes with a look bordering on disappointment. “I don’t get why you don’t wanna have a little fun this summer.”

“Messing around with my ex-girlfriend would not be fun.” It would be the absolute antithesis of fun. Long, hot months of stress and tension and the awkward, unavoidable knowledge that come summer’s end, I’d be leaving again.

Nick clearly disagrees, his scoff as telling as his words. “Meaningless sex is always fun.”

“You would know.” Cass slaps him on the thigh, threatening the fragile stability he’s achieved atop his steed, before clapping a palm down on my shoulder. “Don’t listen to him. Not everyone needs their dick hard to have a good time.”

“I’m just curious, asshole.” Nick risks face-planting the dirty ground to kick a wobbly leg in Cass’ direction. “This is about the blonde, isn’t it?”

One question and my face feels hot, my throat oddly dry, a question I already know the answer to leaving me at an embarrassingly high pitch. “Who?”

“The blonde from Greenie’s.” Nick smirks. “The one you like drooling over.”

I cough, shrugging like I’m not dangerously close to bursting into flames. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Nick’s resounding laugh is anything but subtle. “Sure you don’t.”

God, I wish I could truthfully call his claims bullshit. I wish that Nick wasn’t there when one of many nights spent at Greenies suddenly offered something different than the usual unwanted drinks and counting down the minutes until I could go home without complaint. I wish that I’d never looked up the exact moment a pretty blonde waitress with eyes the same sparkling, clear blue as the creek we’re heading to and a pouty, pink smile that could bring a man to his knees breezed past our table and caught my undivided attention, leading to a infuriating amount of teasing from the friend who witnessed it.

“Come on,” Nick pries, smiling mockingly. “You gonna pine from afar forever?”

Right now, that is my plan.

Something about her sucks the tiny shreds of confidence I possess out of me—I can barely smile and order a beer let alone flirt with the girl.

I don’t answer aloud but it’s like Nick reads my mind, his sigh accompanied with a playful chastising tut. “Let’s hope she likes the silent brooding type.”

It’s my turn to sigh.

I highly fucking doubt it.