26 26 At home, Mother Nature turns the weather bitter cold. Frost ripples across all the branches of my trees and snow remains piled up in the aisles between rows.
It’s too frigid for pruning, so I’ve taken up a spot on my couch for the day, reading while nestled in among a pile of blankets, praying the woodstove will do its job and warm up the house. I’m also awaiting a call from Cooper. His exit assessment with the team trainer is scheduled for today and once it’s finished, he’s supposed to call me with a plan. I’ve decided that today is the day. When he calls, I’m going to own up to everything.
The doorbell rings and a glance out my front window reveals my ever-tenacious postal carrier on the porch. He’s still rocking his pith-style safari hat, despite the snow swirling around him today and the icicles hanging from my porch.
I unearth myself from the mass of blankets and make my way to the door, giving a good yank to open it.
“The one and only.”
He smiles and shoves forward a small clipboard. “Need you to sign for this one.”
I scrawl my name where he indicates.
“Here you go.” He hands an official-looking envelope my way, then slips a pile of regular mail out of his bag, wrapped up with a rubber band. He passes off the second batch. “Thanks. Stay warm.”
For a man well into his sixties, the postal carrier is surprisingly lithe, skipping down my porch steps and trotting to his Jeep, before firing it up and backing down the driveway in record time.
I flop back down on the couch and open the important envelope first. Nothing but another this is not a drill letter to remind me that, short of a miracle, in a few days I’ll be without a place to call my own. The other stack is mostly junk: a coupon book, two catalogs, and some flyers from insurance agents. But at the bottom are two letters with return addresses I recognize. The bank in Rifle and the slow money venture in Boulder. My heart starts to beat wildly.
Ripping open the first envelope, I scan the opening sentences.
Thank you for your application. Unfortunately, we are unable to offer financing . . .
I drop the letter on the coffee table and lean back, trying to quell the rush of disappointment that’s threatening to flood my heart—knowing a sliver of hope remains in the other envelope. With one deep breath and a prayer, I grab it and slide a finger under the flap to tear it open.
Thank you for the recent inquiry. Based on the information provided, we must decline your application . . .
Defeat settles, swift and ruthless. Then a rumble of rejection follows and I’m suddenly exhausted. I held out hope for so long that knowing I’ve met the end of the road is enough to make my entire body weaken.
No more games. I’m out of prospects and options. Time to start figuring out what’s next.
A day after my friendly postal carrier delivered the rejection letters, I decide to spend the morning rummaging for empty boxes behind a liquor store. Because I need boxes to pack up my things. And because this sort of thing is always a treat.
I spot a large box, much bigger than most of what I’ve found, crammed in behind the gigantic metal trash container. Why does it have to be behind the bin, so close to the ungodly aroma that indicates it’s sorely due to be emptied? Because the universe is wholly aligned against me, I think.
I take a deep breath. Bending my knees, I slouch down to clear the large lid that’s flipped back and propped against the cinder-block building, then shuffle a few steps toward my cardboard prize. Given my awkward position, the way I’m diving straight into the smell, it’s like I’m engaged in a rank round of Twister. Still, I manage to latch on to one of the box flaps and give it a yank. It tears. Doesn’t move a fraction, doesn’t come my way. Just rips open, right down one of the seams. Of course.
Giving up, I step back, close my eyes, and put one hand to my forehead. I try to drown out the loud rumble of a truck that sounds near enough to run me over, but when the scent of diesel replaces the garbage aroma, for the first time ever, the smell of motor oil and environmental toxins becomes a soothing salve. Thank you, oh great American auto manufacturers, for all that you do.
“A little early for scavenging, isn’t it?”
My eyes flip open. The liquor store’s neighbor happens to be the co-op. Which means the truck is Garrett’s. It is definitely a diesel, and probably twenty years old, with oxidized paint so faded you’d swear you can see the bare sheet metal underneath. It’s lifted and loud, personalized by a variety of hunting brand stickers on the side glasses, and has both a headache rack and a shotgun rack.
I came early to do my foraging, hoping to avoid a run-in with the penny-pinching guy that owns the liquor store, but neglected to factor in the possibility of crossing paths with Garrett as he arrived for work. He slams the door on his truck and sets his coffee cup on the top of the bedside.
I force a smile. “Oh, no. It’s never too early for this kind of fun.”
Garrett casts a glance toward my truck and notes the open topper, and the few boxes already tossed in the back. I don’t have to explain why I need the boxes. He, along with everyone else in town, likely saw my name and property listed among all the formal sale notices in the legal section of our small local newspaper. In my youth, I always wanted to do something interesting enough to warrant my name appearing in the paper, but this is so not how I imagined it.
Garrett strides over and tosses a few boxes around, inspecting them.
“I hate the fact you won’t be around here anymore, Whitney. It was nice having some new flavor in town. But Denver isn’t too far. Maybe you and Cooper will come visit?”
Cooper. A wave of dizziness hits and I sway a little in place.
He never called yesterday. I also did not take the initiative and call him. I simply couldn’t muster the follow-through required. Instead, I made some tea. Ate a few ginger cookies. Watched mindlessly silly cat videos on my laptop. All in all, I made an Olympic sport out of avoiding the whole damn thing.
My vertigo spell drives Garrett to place a hand under my elbow. “Crap. You look like you’re about to pass out. Sorry, I take it back—you don’t have to come visit. I’ll just keep you as a beautiful, hippie, tree-hugging memory.”
He drops the tailgate on my truck and gestures for me to come sit down. I shimmy up. “Don’t apologize. It’s just that Cooper doesn’t exactly know about the auction sale.”
Garrett runs his hand over his mouth and stares straight ahead, his jaw slack. “Fuck.”
“I know, I know. I’m going to tell him.”
“No. That’s not what I meant.” He rubs his temples with the tips of his index fingers. “He already knows. He called yesterday and wanted to buy out the co-op with supplies for your place. I know he’s got more money than God, but I couldn’t just let him buy all that stuff; it felt wrong. So I told him.”
My eyes narrow slightly as I take in Garrett’s words. Thunk, thunk, thunk. All the pieces start to fall into place.
Cooper knows. That explains why he didn’t call yesterday, because he now knows exactly what a screw-up I am. He knows I’m about to be jobless, homeless, and aimless. Given his ever-ambitious nature, I’m sure hitching his horse to my broke-down wagon scares the hell out of him. As if all that isn’t bad enough, I was too busy dodging reality and he had to hear it from someone else.
I nod slowly, and when Garrett grasps the resignation in my demeanor, he drops his head into his hands and groans. I pat his leg.
“Stop groaning, Garrett. This is my screw-up. All me.”
Garrett drags his hands away from his face.
“I have no clue why I ended up in the middle of this shit with you two, because I haven’t had a girlfriend since high school and I’m the last person who should give anyone advice on much of anything. But if my girlfriend kept this kind of thing from me it would cut. And cut deep. Nothing worse than feeling like the girl you love is lying to you.”
“I didn’t lie. I was just a little selective with the details. He has enough going on; I didn’t need to dump my problems on his doorstep.”
Garrett sighs loudly. “Whitney. He probably wanted you to dump your problems on his doorstep. Fixing shit is good for the ego.”
He swings down off my tailgate and adjusts his ball cap.
“My mom watches Dr. Phil, like, all the fucking time. As a result, I have to listen to her recap the episodes whenever I visit. And I’m about to put verbs in my sentences, Johnny Appleseed.”
Garrett tilts his chin down to lock his eyes on mine, ensuring that he has my attention. For the first time ever, the contented and happy-go-lucky Garrett I’m used to has taken leave. His usual half-grin is gone, replaced by a tight-set jaw.
“I’d bet my truck on the fact that Cooper fucking Lowry would do anything for you. Including stepping in to fix this. Because I guarantee you this . . . helping you isn’t a burden. But you shutting him out? That’s probably killing him.”
Garrett’s eyes go from hurt to hard.
“You have options, Whitney. That’s huge. I’d have given anything for the same when my dad died. Don’t fucking waste what you’ve got sitting right in front of you, because trust me, losing your land—your dirt—it’s hard to take. You can’t wash it off, even when it’s gone.”
With my truck bed full of empty boxes, I drive home and call Cooper. He doesn’t answer. Can’t exactly be surprised by that.
On his voicemail, I do my best to explain myself.
“Cooper? It’s Whitney. Crap, I don’t know why I just said that. You know it’s me. Anyway, let me start with the obvious. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to find out this way—I didn’t mean for that to happen. I want to talk, but . . . let me deal with this part first, OK? After that . . . once I figure out who I am after this is over . . . we’ll talk.”