Jocelyn: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (Sewing in SoCal Book 2) by Sarah Monzon

Author:Sarah Monzon [Monzon, Sarah & Monzon, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Radiant Publication
Published: 2020-10-05T18:30:00+00:00

14

Malachi

Not this time. Nate wasn’t going to escape again without an explanation. He’d been home for over a month without stringing enough words together to convey a plausible reason why he’d returned with his tail tucked between his legs. Time had come for him to face the music, so to speak.

For goodness’ sake, we were family! Family stuck together. Supported each other. They didn’t hide away whatever they’d gone through and lick their wounds on their own. If some hoity-toity, big-shot producer had told Nate he wasn’t good enough for a record deal, then okay. Nate had been bucked off plenty of horses before. He’d never been too afraid to remount after dusting himself off. He just needed to get back in the music-business saddle was all. And if he needed a leg up, I’d be there to give it to him. Same with Gran and Miriam.

The sound of a plastic scooper being shoved into a trashcan full of horse feed rang in my ears. The noise played in this space more times than a record breaker on the radio. Pellets jingled into buckets, volume increasing as I rounded a corner into the feed room.

The muscles in Nate’s shoulders bunched as he propelled the scoop farther into the bin, ignoring me completely. I crossed my arms and let my body fill the doorway. No more fleeing or evading. Time for truth.

“What happened Nate?”

“Wanted to feed before it got too dark, that’s all.” Scoop. Dump.

I flicked a switch, light spilling into the room. “Nice try, but there’s been electricity out here longer than you’ve been alive.”

Scoop. Dump.

“Nate.”

He rested the heels of his palms against the rim of the trashcan, pressing down like he wanted to squash the conversation or the memories of Nashville or both. “I’ll take care of it, Malachi. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Not sure which to address first, the it or Nate’s misconception that I wouldn’t always worry about him—the same way I worried about Gran and Miriam and the ranch. “I worry because I care.”

“I know you do.” His chin dipped to his shoulder.

Three solid seconds passed. “What happened in Nashville?”

One of the horses whinnied, wondering why the hold up with supper.

Nate turned and sank his hands into his pockets then half sat on the lip of the trashcan. He shook his head while staring at the ground, refusing to meet my eye. “I’m such an idiot.” The words rushed out on a wave of air, as if the verbal admission had been a punch in the gut.

I waited. Hard stories were like cantankerous bulls and a trailer. Push too hard and they felt cornered. People got hurt.

Finally, Nate sighed. “I’d been playing at a bar on Music Row known to be a popular hangout location for a specific manager I’d wanted to catch the eye of. I never did see the guy, but another man approached me after my set one night.” The toe of his boot made a line in the dust covering the floor.

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