Chapter 1
Chloe — Present
“Brax,” I said.
In that one syllable, every feeling I’d ever had for him culminated—the times he’d treated me like crap, the times he’d looked at me as if I were the only thing in this world beyond his grasp. All the different Braxtons I’ve known lived in that name. I was no longer a kid; I was an adult. Looking at him now—his golden hair turned to sand, the tips glowing in the sunset light drifting through the window—made me sway in place. Those eyes were like the depths of the ocean, and his shoulders... worlds were built and destroyed on those sturdy, beautiful things and shadows were created with them.
“What?” he asked. He was a hairsbreadth away, making my stomach quake the way it always did when he was this close.
“I want you to...”What did I want?Naked, yes. But did I read as desperate? I’d dated, but I’d never committed, always fearing theBraxton Effect—that effervescent tingle that would disappear as if it were never there, leaving me feeling unworthy.
“Yeah,” he said, gulping audibly.
I looked down, suddenly embarrassed. It had been so long, I felt almost like a virgin again. I’d just had such difficulty finding anyone who was comparable to him. I looked at his body, that hair that curled in odd places without product. And those essential pieces that drew me to him. His unshakable sense of right, his selflessness, how would anyone else compare?
He lifted my chin a moment later. Braxton’s eyes seemed to go up in flames as he looked at me. I’d felt stares from men before, but Braxton knew everything about me—I still wasn’t sure when he’d observed it all, but he had. He felt it, too—the pull we’d always had, even when we were fighting. The attraction was palpable, real, and... I momentarily forgot why I hated him so much.
“Okay,” he whispered. He pulled me against his chest, breaking my reverie.
“Okay,” I agreed. I pulled back and stepped out of my sundress, leaving me in only my panties. Without a bra, the weight of my breasts felt heavy and exposed.
“Whoa,” Braxton said, clearly caught off guard by my boldness.
“Sorry, I...” I reached for my dress, certain I had just killed the vibe. I had grown into my body; the baby fat of my teens had smoothed out into rounded hips and legs, but I wasn’t the stick-skinny models I’d seen him with in the tabloids. Maybe I’d grossed him out. “I’m sorry, this was a bad idea...”
“No, it wasn’t,” Braxton said firmly.
I turned back to him. The visible bulge in his pants and the “brook no argument” look on his face were an unmoving wall.
“But you... I...”
“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “And I am very aroused right now. You can’t just spring your glorious breasts on me and expect me to take my time respectfully.”
This man. He had occupied real estate in my mind for so long. We had held large pieces of time together and apart like magnets—but this time? This time felt different.
11 Years ago
“Chloe, come meet the new neighbor.” My mom yelled, very unladylike, although we
lived with goats; we all kind of bleated.
“Coming,” I said,quickly washing my hands and wiping them on a towel hanging from a nail on a nearby post. I had been cleaning the stalls, readying them for fresh hay, I tried not to sigh about a chore list a mile long that I was slowly checking off. I swiftly walked over to the edge of our property on the east side. It was a bone of contention amongst the three of us, my mom, dad, and I. We’d had to sell part of the ancestral property to help with taxes. I took a big breath, trying to find politeness in this situation. Even though they’d built an eyesore of a McMansion, it didn’t justify hating them.
Stepping around the building, I saw my parents talking to a slight, blonde woman, dressed nicely but not extravagantly; her smile looked tentative and kind, and my parents seemed engaged in what she was saying. To her left stood, a man-boy, tossing a football in a pair of ragged jeans sans shirt, with hair the same golden blonde as his mom’s. Great, I was living next to a Greek god, and I probably smelled like shit.
“Chloe, meet Ms. Gainer,” Mom says. I step up and offer a pretty clean hand, which the woman takes without hesitation.
“Hi Chloe, are you going to Hester prep?” she asked.
“Yep, the public school is terrible, so I don’t really have a choice,” I say, knowing this was another reason my parents had to sell off more land; there was a vast neighborhood of houses now, swathes of prime farmland sacrificed to development.
“Oh, good. Are you a Junior too? Braxton is. Braxton.” His mother yelled in his direction. He responded readily, ran over, and, as if in slow motion, I watched his perfect abs flex, gleaming in the abundant sunlight, and his gorgeous face chiseled and drool-worthy. I looked away quickly, making sure he didn’t catch me watching, but he did. He smiled at me slyly and offered his hand.
“Nice to meet you.” He said with a knowing look on his face. Could I get any more embarrassed?
We stood in silence, and I fixed my gaze on the far wall, anywhere but him. Heat climbed my cheeks and pooled low in my stomach, slow and traitorous. Damn him—stupid, beautiful jock.
“Well, Brax here is the quarterback at the school now; he just auditioned.”
“Tried out, Mom.”
“Sorry, tried out.” She said
“Congratulations,” I said. I felt his intense stare and finally looked up. He smiled at
me.
“Your mom and dad say you are quite the hand with horses. We may need your
expertise. We just got a couple.” She says, trying to draw me out. I was shy by nature, preferring animals to people.
“Sure, let me know if you need any help,” I say. Just then, one of our pigs started
running pell-mell for Brax. I, in a very unladylike manner, grabbed him by the scruff and pulled the wayward pig towards the barn. Happily taking my exit with a smile and a shrug pig in tow.
Chloe
“Did you see the new guy?” asked Amber, my best friend and resident school gossip. Sometimes at school, I felt like a sound wall rather than a human.
“Nope. But I’m sure you’ll tell me,” I say distractedly as I review my arguments for debate class. This class was required, not optional. I didn’t have aspirations to be a lawyer or a lobbyist or anything like that, but going to a private school with high standards means you study not one additional foreign language but two, that you have experience in at least one sport, and that you know how to debate—even if you have no desire to use the skill.
I’m analytical by nature, and somehow learning to debate, to utilize the language of discourse, seemed to satisfy the school board members’ sense of bougie liberal-arts bullshit. It made me wish my grandparents hadn’t footed the bill for me to go here.I wanted to be a songwriter, not a politician. I was angrily arguing with myself when I realized my brain was trying to rack up debt my temperament didn’t have credit for—because staring right at me, while Amber gaped openly, was Braxton.
He was surrounded by the rich and beautiful because, of course, like attracts like. It reinforced how different we were. He was tall—probably over six feet—with perfect, tanned, indolent skin that wouldn’t dare blemish, even though at this age our hormones fought to get to the surface. His gold hair was swept back artlessly, highlighting his chiseled face, those large, accusing blue eyes—even from across the hall—and his lips. God, lips shouldn’t be that lush and perfect outside of a Calvin Klein ad.
“You mean that new guy?” I asked, grabbing the books I needed and breaking Braxton’s stare. When I looked back, he’d already looked away, laughing at one of the cheerleaders. I think her name was Bambi. For some reason, I saw an exotic dancer or a senator’s wife as a future career—but I knew that was just my cynical self. After all, he wouldn’t even acknowledge me.
“Already met him. He’s, my neighbor.”
“Your neighbor?” asked Amber, latching onto that bit of gossip with her teeth, saliva nearly sliding from her mouth.
“Yep,” I said as she followed me into Mr. Brewer’s debate class. She slid into the seat next to mine.
“That’s all you’ve got to say?” she asked.
“Yep,” I said again. I had a hard line with the guys who looked and acted like that.
“He bought the lot next to us. Made a big eyesore of a McMansion, too. It’s got a couple of turrets, Tudor style,” I said, finishing with a terrible British accent.
“Smarmy much?” she asked, leaning in. I couldn’t tell if she was gathering gossip or criticizing my take on the beautiful Braxton.
“No. Critical. If my family hadn’t sold that land, we could’ve used it for its intended purpose—not to house fancy rich people.”
Amber laid a hand on my shoulder. Her eyes were wide, trying to tell me something, but I didn’t understand until I felt the side of my face go hot. I turned my head. Braxton stood there, designer backpack balanced on one finger, staring daggers at me.
“Well, I expect it’s still better than pig wrangling,” he says with a sneer.
“Fuck me,” I mutter under my breath.
“Not a chance, pig girl,” he shoots back.
Eyes huge, I turned to Amber, then composed myself.
“Yep, and proud of it,” I said, turning to face him. He’d taken a seat a couple of rows back; only the three of us were in the room, and other students were slowly filtering in.
“I know getting your hands dirty is hard for you to wrap your head around, but some people work for a living,” I said.
“And some people manage for a living.”
I scoffed—Checkmate, sir. I straightened, turning from him—but I could still feel his eyes burning into the back of my skull.
Braxton- present
“That’s everything,” said Chad, my favorite paralegal. He’d been with me since the start of my career, the only one who didn’t care about my last name.
“Great,” I said with a heavy sigh. I’d made a three-year commitment to this firm straight out of law school, and today, I’d finally served my time.
“You’re really stepping away from all of this for small-town law?” he asked, pushing up his glasses.
I nodded, shoving the last of my personal items into a box. The office already looked as empty as I felt working here.
“Why?”
I pondered that, wondering how much to tell this guy. “You never met my father, right?”
“I did. He was...” Chad paused, looking for a polite word. “Not friendly. He was tight with the senior partners, but he wouldn’t even acknowledge a ‘lowly’ paralegal.” He scoffed.
“Sounds like him. Look, Chad, you’re going to be a great lawyer. You have the instincts for it. I just don’t want to be around these slimy assholes anymore.”
“Fair enough,” Chad said. “How is your dad?”
“Reaping the benefits of a life lived badly. He’s mostly catatonic after the last stroke. He doesn’t even realize I have Power of Attorney now.” I taped the box shut. “We own a piece of land in Colorado that I’ve always loved. That’s where I’m going.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with that Grammy-winning ‘friend’ you mentioned, does it?” He was a hell of a researcher, but he needed to work on his game face; it was all smirk.
I eyed him, wondering just how much I’d revealed that night we got wasted after the merger fell through.
“Maybe,” I said. An image of Chloe flashed in my mind—a siren calling me back to the only place that ever felt like home.
Braxton- 11 years ago
“Well, sorry you had to deal with that,” said Bambi through my phone. Yep, that was her name—like I’d walked into a freaking strip club. Which, technically, I had, because my father didn’t have the headspace to parent when he invited me on trips.
My poor mom was the one who was scandalized, though I was the one who actually got propositioned. And yes, I tried it—unsatisfying, when you pay for it… Maybe I didn’t get an enthusiastic partner, or the falsity of her enthusiasm wasn’t enough to get my rocks off. The tiny sounds of her fake pleasure as she rotated her ample hips—the very idea had given me a semi, but the reality didn’t connect.
I didn’t feel like less of a man; I just understood that my tastes didn’t fall to humiliating someone for my own pleasure. Note taken and filed away, acknowledging that I am not a replica of my father.
I am like my mother, even though I try my best to hide it. I’m not that interested in finance or geopolitics; even though it involves my inheritance, the whole thing bores me. People are greedy and want to make more money by taking advantage of any opportunity they can. I get it. I know it’s the game I’ll have to play, but it’s so depressing. I’d hung up with Bambi, not even remembering what she was chattering about. She certainly liked the way she looked, or didn’t she? I was never sure about girls like her.
With this thought in mind, I walked down to the stables to get further acquainted with Jaque, my new horse—a palomino, I think. And he’s a big bastard; the top of his snout just barely reached my head. I had to get on a stool to brush him, which was a novelty since I was 6’1” and still growing.
“Hey, boy,” I said. Although, to be clear, this was definitely amanhorse, as evidenced by the dominant way he looked down his nose at me, which I tried not to think about. Jaque snuffled and readily took the red apple pieces I’d cut up for him, knocked my shoulder, and snuffled again. I grabbed a brush and began slowly even out his coat. The horse seemed to enjoy it as I hit little sweet spots that made him shudder.
“What do you think of this place?” I asked him. He made a horsey neigh noise as if responding.
“Good to hear. You seem to have a good setup. You and I are guys, right, so the girls around here are crazy. Some are real honeys.” I thought of Bambi—downright gorgeous—and then I thought of my little neighbor Chloe, who stood toe-to-toe and debated me. I was easy on her today because I’d already won a couple of awards at my previous school. She had some good arguments but lacked a killer instinct. She didn’t seem to want to fight dirty, which you sometimes had to do. Debate was a required class, so she was there for the grades. I, on the other hand, welcomed any chance to go head-to-head with an opponent—it was my future, after all.
“You’ve met Chloe. What do you think?” I asked.
The horse neighed.
“Yeah, she’s pretty,” I admitted, although there was no way in hell, I’d give that girl an inch. She’d probably use it against me—or I would.
From my perch atop the stool, I could see out the barn door and across the vast, flat expanse of yard.Chloe and her parents stood in the yard. Chloe’s parents were both large-animal vets. Chloe was animatedly talking to them about something. She held a brown chicken that seemed content in her arms. Her dad petted the animal as she spoke, laughter sparkling in his eyes. A pig ran by, and he grabbed it by the scruff, leading it away as he said something over his shoulder. Her mom, who’d been sweeping, stopped and watched the scene.
Jealousy rose within me. They were so happy. They definitely had less—but more, in some ways. My mom loved me, always stole hugs, and asked about my day and my current obsessions, but we didn’t really have anything to talk or vibe about unless complaining about my father counted. She always had something to say about him, and I am not afraid to admit I sometimes fed her fire, none of it was healthy.
Recently, one of his friends had handed me some coke, the powder stuff, not the soda, and I’d told Mom all about it. She hadn’t been surprised and had talked to him harshly. I had been awarded an “upgrade” to a convertible—the latest model Corvette. I loved the car; it was beautiful, but honestly, it was too much car for me. I would have rather he talked to me and apologized than exposed me to his friends. I would rather he thought about me and my safety. That ship had sailed. A relationship with my father seemed like fiction at this point.
I was still watching my neighbors as three pigs were now loose; the first one must have been the mastermind because the other two were following his lead. Now all three family members were chasing them—smart little fuckers—they didn’t look chastened at all as Chloe and her parents followed, their little piggy faces full of glee. Chloe still had a chicken in her arms as she ran after them. I shook my head, envious of her life.
Chloe — Present
I sat behind the piano and caught Alliyah’s eye. My long-time collaborator and friend gave me a sharp nod, and I struck the opening chords. Alliyah started to hum, a melodious sound like a well-tuned engine warming up for a race.
Two measures in, I joined her, taking the low harmony while she soared with the melody. I followed her soulful voice as it swirled and punched through the room, leaving me breathless by the time we hit the interlude. I leaned into the keys, playing behind the lead guitar as Alliyah moved to the rhythm. Right before the final verse, she looked toward the ceiling, waited for the climax, and poured out her soul.
It felt like she’d created an aurora borealis above us made entirely of sound. We were all enveloped in it, riding the tide of her runs, surrounded by the peaks and valleys of a heart laid bare.
She ended quietly. One resonant middle C echoed through the studio.
We all held our breaths—the players, the producer, the tech at the mixing board. Then Alliyah let out a long exhale, and we collectively followed.
“Is there anything left?” I asked, wondering if she’d just painted the entire interior of her soul on the walls for us to see.
“Yep,” she said, taking a deep breath. She reached for a chilled bottle of fancy water and downed half of it in one go, swiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“You’re a marvel,” I said, unable to stop smiling.
She turned to me, slender and graceful with her café-au-lait skin, a shy smile, and those trademark twinkling blue eyes. Today, she was rocking a dark denim romper with yellow stitching, matching denim shoes, and epically large hoop earrings. I’d known her for nearly eight years, and she had grown so much as an artist and a person. She was still sassy, still loved a good gossip sesh, and still had a voice that could break you apart and put you back together.
And as good as she was, she still didn’t know it, which endeared me and many others to her.
“What?” she asked, catching me staring.
“Nothing, just admiring your braids.” The braids in question hung below her butt and were mostly neon pink. She swished them for me, and I just smiled.
“Woo.” She slumped down onto the bench next to me. “Let’s take thirty, guys.”
The guitarist, bassist, and drummer didn’t need to be told twice. As a unit, they headed out the booth door—probably to share a doobie in the alley. I wasn’t judging; honestly, that sounded pretty good right about now. Even so, I could practically hear my father’s voice preaching to me that Iwasn’t no pothead.Some voices never leave you, no matter how many miles you put between you and the ranch.
“How are you?” I asked Alliyah.
“Tired,” she admitted, resting her head on my shoulder.
“I bet.”
She’d just come off a grueling tour, all while raising her second baby with her husband. Speaking of, her husband—who also doubled as her producer—smiled and waved from behind the large glass of the sound booth, trying to catch her eye.
I reached for a pencil, my staff paper songbook within reaching distance. You never know when the muse is going to strike.
Twirling neon pink wrapped around a soulful sound. Swaying to the music, making everyone’s world go round.
Alliyah eyed the lines over my shoulder and let out a weary sigh.
“It’s like you’re constantly creating, Chloe. I envy you.”
“What you just did in that booth was creating, too,” I said, tapping my pencil against the book.
“You did it with your voice.”
“It’s just singing,” she countered.
I widened my eyes and gave her a flat stare. “Just singing?”
She grinned then, nodding her head. “Okay... epic singing.”
I patted her on the back, and she pulled me into a quick, fierce hug.
“Ally!” Austin’s voice boomed from outside the booth.
Austin was a rocker through and through—used to lead a band until they imploded. He was covered in ink from his wrists to his ankles, with silver rings glittering in both ears and a diamond stud in his septum. But despite the hard exterior, his smile was pure gold, and it was always reserved for Alliyah. She couldn’t help but smile back. Alliyah had gotten lucky; Austin was one of the good ones. They’d met on the same show I had; he wanted a way into the industry, and he’d found it in the best possible way.
“You’re being called,” I teased.
“He can wait,” she said, still leaning her weight on my shoulder. “I missed my girl while I was on tour. All those stupid people doing...” She paused, her eyes fluttering. Whether it was mommy-brain or pure exhaustion, she was hitting a wall.
“Waiting on you hand and foot?” I supplied.
“Yes! And always agreeing with me... it’s so boring. No one but Austin and the band to actually kick it with.”
“Well, I had other obligations, but next time I can join you for a few shows if you’d like.”
“Yes. And we’ll go shopping. I saw pyramids, Chlo. Actual fucking pyramids.”
“I saw the photos,” I laughed. “The big outdoor concert with the pyramids in the background and the pyrotechnics in the foreground.”
“It was too produced,” she whispered, her eyes closing. “I miss the raw stuff. Like the track we just laid down. That’s what I love.”
I felt her breathing grow slow and steady as she drifted off right there on my shoulder. I stayed quiet, knowing how draining a new song can be, especially with everything else she had on her plate. It had been nearly impossible to clear her schedule to get her here, to this small studio near Barton. She needed this. I’d already set her and Austin up in a cottage at the ranch; I planned on making her ride horses and do absolutely nothing for a few days.
Austin stepped in quietly, moving like a cat despite his boots. He mimed sleeping with his hands under his head and pointed at his wife. I nodded and smiled.
“She’s exhausted,” he whispered. “She really needed this break. Thank you, Chloe.”
“Of course. Hide her phone so she doesn’t feel obligated to take on another project. She needs to disappear for a bit.”
Alliyah let out a sudden snuffle-snort and jerked awake. “Who needs a break?”
“You do,” Austin and I say in perfect unison.
“Geez.” She sat up straight, wiping a bit of drool from her lip.
Austin helped her up, his hand steady on her waist.
“That’s all for tonight. Maybe we can jam at the ranch tomorrow if you have anything else?”
He wanted more songs for the new album they were building, and I had a lexicon stretching back to my first song at age 8. I had plenty to choose from, but as I watched them walk out, I felt a familiar itch. I didn’t want to dig through the archives. I needed to stretch my creative wings and write something new. Something honest.
Honestly, I’m still a little haunted by those blue eyes and that easy, charming smile. Braxton. I remember how he used to give me a “personal” smile—one he shared with no one else. I picked up my things and stowed them away, holding the memory close. Back then, my heart was more open. More honest. Before I learned how to hate him.
I pulled out my songwriting book again and scribbled a line:
Eyes as blue as the ocean capturing me, holding me even from the length of a memory.
The last time I saw Brax is suspended in my mind like a photograph. The way he kissed me like I was the only girl in the universe; the way he held me as if he’d never let go. A tear slipped past my lashes and hit the page.
Then, my phone dinged.
I grabbed it, my heart doing a traitorous leap, wondering if the memory of him had somehow summoned the real thing. I still can’t believe he never offered a single word of sympathy for what we lost. I wiped my eyes, my vision fogged with emotion and opened the message.
It wasn’t Brax. It was Amber.
Amber:Hey girl, hey. Guess who I saw in town, getting ready to move back?
I had a niggling feeling I already knew. Like my soul recognized the threat before my brain did.
Me:Hey. Who?
Amber:Braxton Hicks.
Me:Fuck me.
Amber:I would if I liked girls. ;)
Me:🤨Thanks.
Amber:I mean Braxton Gainer. Your former whatever. Asshole extreme who left you and your—
Me:Please don’t say it.
Amber:The motherfucker I’m gonna fuck up the next time I see him.
Me:He’s got a lot on his plate.
Amber:You are the sweetest thing, but you know he’s El Supremo Asshole.
Me:Did you trademark that? We could make shirts. His face is that of a superhero with an over-the-top kingly cape.
Amber:[Meme: Woman with wide eyes]
Me:Just thinking profit. We should get a fee for every time an asshole ducks out on people.
Amber:I love you. But you got dark, Chlo.
Me:I have reason.
Amber:I know, love. See you soon.
Me:❤️
I took a deep breath, anger finally replacing that hollow sense of misery. Why was he backnow? Juanita, one of our grooms, had mentioned seeing movement at the Gainer place recently. It had been kept up just enough not to crumble—a gardener and a housekeeper fighting back the dust motes of an empty life—but it hadn’t beeninhabitedin years.
What the hell?
I wonder what my horoscope said for today, I thought as I tried to smile through the last of the angry tears. I walked to my car, bracing for the long drive home. I needed my dog, my bed, and a very large container of ice cream.
Chloe- 11 years ago
A wave of nerves rolled through my stomach. We’d drawn topics from a hat, and I gotwealth and privilege to debate.My job is to prove that hard work beats privilege. Braxton’s? The opposite. Of course. The universe must hate me.
“Scared?” Asked Braxton, leaning towards me, his stupidly beautiful face right in mine.
“Nope.”
I’d practiced my speech with Dad, who tried to act like a drill sergeant but still clapped when I nailed a sentence. He wouldn’t have prepared me forthis. Braxton wasn’t just pretty—he was smart. The kind of smart that was dangerous, wrapped in confidence and a jawline.
The class was talking loudly in groups, clearly not concerned about the consequences of a debate in a junior class.Yep, I was mentally spiraling, although looking around, I could give two shits what most of these people thought.Claire and Bella, two of my fellow band geeks, huddled near me, trying to pass dirty glares at Braxton. His eyes were on me, probably assessing.This was the most prepared I’d ever been for this class.He probably didn’t have to study; he knew the subject all too well.
“Hey.” Said Mr. Groggsly, the teacher, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, a knit blue pullover with a coffee stain, and an expression of aggravation.He took two Tylenol discreetly and swallowed them with coffee, made a pained face, and turned to the class.
“We have a couple of debates to get to today. So, everyone settle down.Chloe, you’re up first.”
I looked up, dreading the whole thing, and bowed to my fate, my pile of organized index cards clutched in a sweaty hand. I took a breath, got up, voices drifting, quiet eyes following my long walk, although it was probably only five steps to stand in front of my peers. They would probably be fantasizing about the pep rally and the party after tomorrow’s football game.They wouldn’t even care.
I took another deep breath and said, “Wealth and privilege are my subject.” I told the first with confidence I didn’t feel, and then “Wealth and privilege are a steppingstone in this society predicated by cattle barons and enterprising men whose children live off their glory.While wealth and privilege are the backbone of our country, pulling oneself up by one’s bootstraps is also a part of it.We are a society built on immigrants who escaped persecution for a better life.Not an easy one.” I said, going into detail, finishing my speech on nearly one breath at its end, meeting with the tinny dissonant tones of crickets.I smiled, or at least tried, and walked back to my seat.
“Very good, Ms. Hamilton, for an opening.I hope there is more meat yet.” He said, eyeing me over the top of his glasses.I took the hit knowing that my argument was shaky; it was a complicated subject to research.
“Mr. Gainer.” Said Mr. Groggsly.Braxton stood up from a seat as if rising in the air like a magician.Jesus, his entrance was way better than mine.
“Good morning.” He said, smiling and looking around like a practiced politician. “While Ms. Hamilton has many fine points,” he said derisively, or am I just imagining it?“One must also examine wealth and its advantages.It’s leverage. If you have money, it comes with power and the ability to maneuver.My Uncle Senator Michael Gainer...” He continued, my uninterested classmates were now compelled to hang on his every word as he finished.I may have been beaten on the genetic level.
“Ok.Both compelling arguments.” Said Mr. Groggly, somewhat more engaged due to a lessening headache, or actually enjoying the debate.I wasn’t sure.But as Braxton went to sit down directly behind me, he whispered in my ear.
“Better luck next time, pig farmer.” And I felt like everyone in class heard; my ire rose instead of my embarrassment.
“Faulty thinking, Braxton Hicks,” I said.
“Braxton Gainer.” He said his lips tightened in; was that anger?
“No, Braxton Hicks. False labor contractions. Seemed appropriate,” I said, turning back so I wouldn’t see his reaction.
“Well, still better than being head to toe in mud,” he said.
Shots fired, Mr. Gainer, shots fired.You wait to see what this pig farmer can do.
Mr. Groggsly quietly hushed the class as the next unwilling participant, Jack Kiman, stepped forward. He was small for his age, with greasy black hair falling in his eyes and a threadbare uniform that looked like it had seen better days. Clearly a scholarship kid. He cleared his throat and started to speak, but with Braxton’s words echoing in my mind, I didn’t miss a single thing he said.
Chloe – present day
Memories of years cycle through my mind. I can vividly remember the softness of my favorite lavender sweater, and I remember myself in debate class, even when it was my turn to debate.I remember how small Brax had made me feel and how it was just the tip of the iceberg of his bullying.
I try to remember he’s a grown man and that, hopefully, having come back to his roots, he has grown, although I think he just played it out as a means to prove his superior intellect.It wasn’t necessarily superior, but it was more well-thought-out, prettily presented, and engaging.People could probably hear my nerves through my shaky words and the fact that I couldn’t keep my hands out of my hair.Regardless of how spotlessly I had researched and presented it on paper.I knew I never had any desire to be a public speaker; these and other experiences just reinforced it, but the burn of humiliation in front of my peers made me withdraw even further into my animals and the emotive properties of songwriting.Through this lens, I was beautiful and vibrant, not the forever-awkward, not-quite-pretty-enough teenager.
At least I was someone who bounced back.As with any other realization, it took me time to gain this understanding.I tried to repress my automatic response to Brax and his brash arrogance, and to remember the quiet moments when I could see who he was. Unfortunately, I never knew which Brax I would get.
I tried to quiet my mind as I walked across the street to help him with the barn setup.I wondered why he would come back here. He was now a wealthy, well-connected attorney. He could live in all the fancy places he bragged about. Why wouldn’t he sell this measly piece of land?
I raised my hand to ring the bell, took a breath, and hit it with authority.The dissident echoing chimes of the doorbell that I recognized from teenagehood remained the same.I didn’t wait long until Braxton was in front of me.
Just as beautiful as he had always been, but his edges had been smoothed by age; he was in his late twenties, like me. His eyes held maturity, his hands clasped, his face open and smiling strangely.
“Hi.” He said, opening the door for me to step through.Still the same grand foyer, a grand staircase winding up to the second floor with the glamour of any Hollywood home, a sparkling chandelier still glittered and danced on the walls. But the quiet was there too; I wasn’t as intimidated as I once was. It was just a house.
“Hi,” I responded, following him.
“How are you?” He asks.
“Good,” I say cautiously. “And you.”
I am an adult, I remind myself.If this guy is rude, I will have him consult for his renovations with a male who will take his orders like a military command; we have too much history for me to obey him blindly.
He stops in the hall, looking at me, opening his mouth, and closing it.
“I have some images I’ve put together if you’d like to see them,” I say, tapping my laptop bag. “They are preliminary from the things you said you wanted and then expanding upon them with some new upgrades you might like.”
“Sure, let’s just go into the dining room.” He says, walking there.Again, I walk into a quiet, lonely room with beautiful furnishings.
We spent a few moments going over some of the options.I wasn’t an architect, but I’d helped with many barn renos over the last 8 years.Brax and I discussed the changes, and we made some tweaks based on his needs.
“And it would be great if I could do a visual evaluation of it,” I say
“Sure…” He says as his phone rings. I saw Victoria on his screen and looked away. “Um, I…”
“Go ahead. I know where I’m going.” I say, lifting my eyes to his and turning around.
I could have sworn I heard my name softly spoken, but maybe I was mistaken.
11 years ago
Chloe
I lay in my bed, my comforter covering my clothed body completely.
“Chloe, it’s getting late.” My mom yelled that she was trying to finish her chores before she went to help at the clinic.She popped her head into my room, dark except for my nightlight, as I stared at the ceiling. Humiliation had not completed its course in its travels to humble me.I had yelled at the ceiling and my favorite chicken, Chickpea, that I couldn’t handle it.Why did someone so brilliant and gorgeous have to exist in the real world? Why couldn’t they stay on the WB where they belonged?This internal battle didn’t do much for me, though.
“Hey.” Said my mom, she swiped a tear that had fallen down my cheek.
“Hey,” I said back, gulping on a cry.
“You want to take a psych day; humiliation is hard to overcome. I remember.” Mom said consolingly.
“Nope.I’m just girding my loins.” I said
“There’s my trooper.” She said, smiling at me. “Did you feed the chickens and the pigs?”
“Yep,” I said, sitting up, grabbing a tissue from my nightstand, and trying to smile at mom, who had way bigger problems than my bruised ego.
“You can stay home, you know.” She said, already dressed for work, and knowing her, she had done a quick tidy of the kitchen and mucked out the stalls and ridden Clarence, her favorite horse, down the valley and back.My mother was the person I wanted to be when I grew up.
“I won’t give that asshole the satisfaction,” I said.
My mom just smiled at me encouragingly.Neither of my parents discouraged cursing; they said it made us look coarse and uneducated but allowed me my spurts of anger.
“Well, he seems like a nice kid.” She tried.
“Yep, he’s not gonna be a classic asshole to his neighbor. His mother already sees you as a friend.” I say, shaking my head.
“Yeah, I’ve had my share of stuck-up rich boys. I know they can be too-faced, but he’s 16, which means his mentality is that of a 10-year-old.” We said the last together just as my dad peeped his head in.
“Didn’t know we were having a powwow in here.”
We just looked at each other.
“Are you still hung up on what Braxton said?” He asked.
I could only nod from my perch under my comforter.
“I can’t let him win. I hope I don’t get splashed with blood like Carrie for daring to stand up to him.” I say.
“Nah, Carrie was an outcast.” He said.
“We aren’t rich, Dad. I am an outcast.” I say.
“At least you’re not a scholarship kid.” Mom said.I loved my parents.I smiled up at them, deciding to take the courage they gave me, flipped open my bed, slipped into my power Mary Janes, and stood up.
Later at school, I would regret my decision because I had laughed and talked with Amber about how stupid the cheerleaders looked in their new colors, magenta and blue, and how they all tried to put a positive spin on such badly paired colors.Maybe they were okay, but I never missed a chance to find something to tease them about. I didn’t always throw jibes, but I always had to be ready.With this in mind, I headed for my locker, which had a crudely painted “pig girl” in red letters.
“Holy fuck.” Said Amber, and I didn’t say anything, opening it, grabbing my books, and slamming it.Braxton stood across the hall, his lips tense with humor or anger…
I walked right up to him. A hairbreadth away, my shoddy Mary Janes looked out of place next to his dark brown dress shoes that had a prominent AX on the very top denoting Armani.I shook my head.
“Next time you have something to say, say it to my face or be more legible when you write it,” I say
Braxton remained silent.Simmering.
11 years ago
Braxton
“Bambi,” I said, walking down the hall like I had a mission.
The only person to hear me call Chloe pig girl was her, it had to be her.
“Yeah, Brax.” She asked.She was in the ridiculous new colors, pink and blue, and I probably had to wear some hideous football uniform version.
“Don’t you, Brax, me.Did you paint Chloe’s locker?” I asked.
“Maybe.” She said, looking up and smiling snidely. Jesus, this girl was a minion, and I didn’t want one.
“You humiliated her.Why would you do that?” I asked.A crowd was starting to form, looking at Bambi.
“I’m sorry, Brax, I thought you’d like it…” She said a little sob in her voice.
“I don’t.It’s dirty.Go find the custodian and clean that up.” I said imperiously.
Her bottom lip wobbled, and I felt sorry for her.I gave her a shoulder hug and said, “You’re better than that. Don’t treat others like that; it makes you look like a bully.” I say, which is crazy coming from me, I demolished Chloe, but on an even playing field, not this bullshit. And I definitely didn’t feel like she was a lesser in a lot of ways, she was luckier than I, I just had money.
I stood in the hall, sweet-talked my civics teacher into letting me supervise cleaning Chloe’s locker.I even had the principal, who golfed with my dad, write a letter of apology.Bambi cleaned up her mess, ruined her favorite white shirt, and did 2 weeks of detention, without Chloe knowing.I had no place looking like the good guy.
But the image of her standing up to me — chin high, fearless — made something in my chest quake. She didn’t want my approval. She had a mind of her own, a spine I wasn’t used to. The others were clones, bowing for my attention, easy to manipulate. But Chloe? She called me out. She made me feel small. And even though I hated that… God, I couldn’t look away.
I’d only humiliated her again, and the guilt crawled under my skin like fire. I told myself to let it go. To let her go. But my wrath wasn’t aimed at her anymore — it was turned inward, burning hotter than I wanted to admit.
Chloe
“Hi,” I muttered to Jaque the Third, a massive black stallion watching me from across the aisle. We were in the temporary barn—though with full heating, ventilation, and AC, these horses clearly lived better than I did.
Jaque looked down his nose at me.I know you live better than I do, buddy. I get it.
A flood of teenage memories crowded my mind as my gaze drifted to Braxton. He was shirtless, working on refacing a section of the main house that had been closed off for nearly a decade. He’d been lying on his back to reach a tricky angle, but as I watched, he stood up and wiped his brow. His abs had only gotten better with age. He caught me staring, andcrap—the edge of a smirk tugged at his lips.
Blushing, I snapped my focus back to my clipboard, pretending to be deeply invested in measurements and design suggestions. This was supposed to be the new training barn; Braxton apparently planned on breeding Thoroughbreds. I wondered if he’d finally burned out on being a lawyer. He’d always claimed he didn’t take pleasure in hurting people, though I’d certainly received plenty of his vitriol back in the day.
Jotted down a few more notes, I walked past a work table and froze. Sitting right there was an envelope with my name written across the front. I glanced around, wondering if one of the ranch hands shared my name. Unlikely. They were all men, and I’d helped hire most of them.
I picked it up cautiously, a knot forming in my stomach. Was this how Braxton fired people now? An in-person conversation required too much emotional effort, I suppose. I ripped open the envelope and pulled out a single piece of paper—heavy, textured, and expensive, like everything else he owned.
Dear Chloe,
I can sense your hesitation. I know I haven’t given you many reasons to trust me, but I want you to know that I want us to be on good terms. We were young and full of fire when we first met, and things happened. I want to say I’m sorry. Words aren’t enough, so I’m going to use these notes to tell you the truths I should have told you then. Here is the first one.
#26. I didn’t write “pig girl” on your locker. I valued you too much to ever do that. I’m sorry you had to endure the ridicule that came with it. I won’t name names—it’s been too long, and she isn’t important to either of us anymore. But I needed you to know.
I know I have a lot to prove, but I want to start here.
I stared at the paper, feeling the weight of Braxton’s gaze. When I looked up, he simply inclined his head, shrugged his shoulders, and went back to his power tools.
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
A wave of unresolved high school trauma washed over me. Part of me wanted to tear the note to pieces and never look at him again. But the other part of me—the weak, curious part—instantly wanted to know what numbers 25 through 1 were going to say.
He had no idea how deeply he’d fucked me over. Years of failed relationships, an endless cycle of hyper-vigilance, always waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for a guy to laugh and say,“Haha, I don’t really like you, it was a joke.”How were we supposed to just get past that? I made a mental note to bring this up with my therapist. Maybe she could make sense of it.
Sighing, I waved to get his attention and walked over to the section of the house where he was working. He cut the power to his tool and stepped down to meet me.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.”
We stared at each other across the dusty expanse, the silence stretching uncomfortably. I decided not to mention the apology note. Honestly? I was terrified of his reaction.
“Um, I’m gonna head out,” I stammered, shifting my weight. “I have some chores to run, but I’ll email you the design blueprints as soon as I finish them.”
“Okay,” he said quietly. I could see the flash of disappointment in his dark eyes. Yeah, me too. I was being a total coward.
As I turned to walk away, I could feel the heat of his stare burning into my back. A single apology for one of the million times he’d made me feel like garbage wasn’t going to cut it.
“Chloe,” he called out.
I stopped and turned back. “Yeah?”
His expression softened, looking as though he wanted to say a million different things at once. A decade of unsaid words hung suspended in the air between us.
Desperate for a distraction, I remembered the item in my pocket. “Oh—I found this in the dirt by the stalls. Not sure if it’s important.” I held up a tarnished gold locket.
Braxton didn’t just walk over; he leaped down from the staging with an effortless, athletic grace and sauntered toward me. He took the dangling chain from my fingers. The moment the locket hit his open palm, he sucked in a sharp, ragged breath.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
“Of course,” I said, offering a faint smile.
He stared at me with an intensity I couldn’t decipher—hunger, confusion, or maybe both. The atmosphere between us became too thick to breathe, so I took a step back, gave a tight half-smile, and walked away for real this time.
Every step toward my truck made me feel freer, yet I could still feel that inexorable, magnetic pull that had always existed between us. Why now? Why was he even back here? I’d heard his fifty-something father had suffered a stroke, which, given the man’s lifetime of extreme excess, wasn’t surprising. The elder billionaire playboy loved bragging about his yachts and parading women young enough to be his daughters. I remembered the deeply hurt, resentful looks Braxton used to throw at his father’s back when we were younger.
Once safely in my truck, I dialed my mom. She answered on the second ring, a loud engine roar muffled in the background.
“Hey, honey!” she shouted over the noise.
“Where are you? Are you on a boat?”
“Oh, yes! We’re out with some friends, the Williamses. You met them the last time you visited.”
My parents were currently at a rehabilitation center in Kentucky. Both of them were highly skilled in horse training and veterinary care, and they couldn’t pass up the opportunity to fill in while the center’s lead vet was on maternity leave.
“Good to know you’re working so hard,” I teased.
“You know we work hard,” Mom laughed. Sometimes I had to remind myself she was my mother and not an older sister. She and Dad had had me when she was only seventeen. I wasn’t planned, but I was fiercely loved. The delivery had been rough on her young body, causing complications that meant I remained an only child... right up until they took Braxton in.
“Braxton wrote me a note,” I blurted out, cutting through the small talk.
The roar of the boat motor died down; it sounded like she’d stepped into the cabin. “Well, I hope you two are communicating and working well together.”
“Yeah, about that. He apologized for the ‘pig girl’ sign on my locker from high school. He claims he didn’t put it there. Mom, it was eleven years ago. Why would he bring it up now?”
“I’m not sure, sweetie,” she said, playing her usual role of mediator.
“And the note was labeled number twenty-six.”
“So... he has twenty-five other apologies lined up?” Mom offered.
“Yeah. I don’t get it.”
“Well, I’ve only ever been with your father, and he’s always been an open book. Tom!” she called out. I didn’t even mind that she was roping him in; Mom told him everything anyway.
“Yep?” Dad’s voice boomed over the speaker. He was a man of few words. I quickly recap the note situation for him.
There was a long pause on the line. “I always wondered...” Dad said cryptically.
“Wondered what?”
“About his devotion to you.”
“Dad,” I groaned, a wall of confusion and mixed emotions slamming into me.
“Really,” Dad added. It was classic Tom—encompassing an entire universe of meaning in a single word. I secretly hated both of them in that moment for refusing to just hand over the keys to this mysterious adult knowledge. I felt like I was standing on the outside of my own life, peeking through a keyhole without any context.
“Okay, you guys are giving me absolutely nothing here,” I sighed. “Braxton’s life wasn’t easy, I know that. His mom, his dad, his siblings...”
“What about that summer?” Dad interrupted gently.
“I’m not discussing that summer. It was a fluke. A total anomaly that didn’t stand the test of time,” I snapped. I had thought Braxton liked me then. I’d really, truly believed it—right up until he proved me wrong.
Mom came back on the line. “I love you, honey. Just talk to him, okay?”
“I really don’t want to.”
“I get it, Chloe. But he’s grown up. Give him a chance.”
I sat in my truck, my mouth literally hanging open in disbelief. I hung up the phone, staring at the steering wheel. I really, really do not understand men.
Chloe- Present
I trudged out to the driveway to get the mail, thoroughly exhausted and deeply frustrated. I’d been wrestling with the chorus of a song I was writing for hours, and it just wouldn’t gel. I was definitely not fit for public consumption. I was wearing stretched-out sweats—the wordJUICYspelled out in cracking glitter across the entire span of my backside—a ratty old high school t-shirt, zero undergarments, and a messy bun held together by sheer willpower. I was not in a friendly mood.
I almost missed the envelope sitting in the mailbox. My name was scrawled across it in
Braxton’s neat, distinct handwriting.
Chloe,
I get that you aren’t ready to forgive me. I’m patient, and I have a long memory.
Remember that day I walked up to you while you were reading under the big maple tree? I think it was Machiavelli or something. It was almost fall, the air had a bite to it, the leaves were just starting to turn, and you were wearing these cute polka-dot overalls with your hair in two ponytails. You were totally absorbed in your book.
I was trying to work up the nerve to ask you to the drive-in. Then Bambi walked over and ruined it. Or maybe what really ruined it was the fact that you were going with that asshole Scott, when I wanted to be the one taking you so badly.
#25. I did ask Bambi to make out with Scott later that weekend, but only because I was completely blinded by jealousy. I couldn’t stand that I wasn’t the one taking you.
Trying to make amends,B
What the actual hell?
He wanted to go on a date with methen? Before that summer? Before everything went to hell? I sank down onto the porch step, completely blindsided. The past and the present scrambled together in my brain, refusing to make sense.
Chloe — 11 Years Ago
“You got a date with Scott?!” Amber squealed so loudly that half the hallway turned to look at us.
My face instantly flared hot. I shot her a warning glare. “We’ve just been hanging out...” I muttered, hoping she’d read between the lines and realize that meant a little heavy making out.
“Uh-huh. Give me the NC-17 version,” she demanded with a wicked grin.
“Sorry, it’s strictly PG-13 at the moment. I haven’t shifted careers to assassin or high-end call girl yet.”
Amber rolled her eyes, then threw her arms around me and squeezed so hard my ribs popped. She was tall, lean, and the top-ranked pole vaulter in the state, so her literally lifting me off the ground wasn’t even surprising anymore.
“Lesbos,” a voice muttered as a varsity letterman pushed past us. It was Hammond Eddington the Third. I’d called him Bacon since the second grade, ever since the traumatic recess where he tried to force a wet kiss on me.
I flipped him off without looking.
“You’d love to watch us get it on, Bacon!” Amber yelled after him, backing it up with a double bird. He scoffed, adjusting his backpack, and hurried along. “I want a boyfriend,” Amber sighed, dropping her hands. “But definitely not that one. And preferably someone who isn’t an absolute caveman.”
Right on cue, Lennox came walking toward our lockers. He was a shy junior who basically lived and breathed the art studio—all curly dark hair, soulful chocolate eyes, and a solid build from the wrestling team. He drifted over and sat on the bench next to Amber like it was written in the stars.
“Hey,” he said softly.
“Hey, Lennox,” Amber replied. And that was it. Total lock-in. They were giving each other the kind of intense, melty eye contact you usually have to pay ten bucks to see in a movie theater.
I raised a hand in greeting, but they had already completely forgotten I existed.
“So, Lennox,” I interrupted loudly, saving them from themselves. “What are you doing this weekend?”
He blinked, sitting up a little straighter. “Nothing much. You?”
“Scott asked me to the drive-in. They just reopened it for the season.” I looked between the two of them, acutely aware of how badly they wanted to touch hands but were too terrified to try. “You know... Amber really wants to go, too. You guys could totally go together.”
“Um, Chloe, you don’t have to—” Amber started, her cheeks turning pink.
“Okay,” Lennox cut in immediately. He turned to Amber. “You want to go? I can pick you up.”
A shy smile broke across her face. “Yeah. That sounds really cool.”
They stared at each other for another solid, steamy beat.
“Oh crap!” Amber jumped up suddenly. “I have to finish my computer programming project. I only have like an hour before class starts.”
“I can come with you,” Lennox offered, already halfway to his feet. “Help you out, if you want.”
“Please,” Amber beamed.
“Okay, see you guys later,” I called out as they started down the hall. Lennox lagged a step behind, turned back to me, and pressed his hands together in a silent, worshipfulthank you. I nodded knowingly. He’d better make her happy, or I was going to find highly creative ways to torture him.
Smiling to myself, I walked out to the courtyard, opened my English Lit novel, and leaned against the trunk of the massive maple tree. I wanted to knock out a few chapters before I had to help my parents at the veterinary clinic tonight.
“Hey, brainiac. What are you up to?”
The voice carried that iconic, arrogant teenage snarl straight out of an 80s movie. I groaned internally and looked up—way up. Braxton was leaning against the opposite side of the tree trunk, looking down at me.
“Reading,” I said flatly, snapping my eyes back to the page. I didn’t owe him politeness.
He let out a low chuckle, clearly unaccustomed to girls entirely dismissing him. “What are you doing this weekend?” he asked, stepping closer.
I wrestled with the urge to saynone of your beeswaxlike a literal toddler, but managed to restrain myself. “Going to the drive-in with Scott,” I said, keeping my tone casual. “You?”
Braxton’s entire posture tensed. The easy smirk vanished, replaced by a strained, tight smile. “Me too. Probably with Tonni. Or Bambi.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” I said, letting my book drop into my lap as I raised my eyebrows at him.
He tilted his head, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek—a telltale sign he was annoyed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you have a harem, Braxton. Don’t worry, I didn’t submit an application.”
“I wouldn’t have accepted it anyway,” he shot back.
Before I could retort, Bambi appeared out of nowhere, practically throwing her entire body against his arm and wrapping herself around him. For a split second, I thought I saw a flash of genuine irritation cross Braxton’s face, but he masked it instantly.
As they walked away, I felt the distinct prickle of his eyes lingering on me over his shoulder. I shook it off. It had to be my imagination.
Later that night, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, a ball of nervous anxiety twisting in my stomach. I was wearing skin-tight, high-waisted jeans and a black crop top with neon-pink lettering that readCritter Cuddler. I’d pulled my hair up into high twin ponytails—the optimal style for making out without getting hair stuck in my lip gloss—and applied a thick layer of sparkly, bubble-gum-scented gloss. My eyes were the main event: I had attempted my very first sharp cat-eye wing with a smoky shadow blend, and I was actually incredibly proud of it.
I laced up my neon-pink Converse, folding the tongues down just right. Matchy-matchy. Cute.
I let out a breath, hoping I looked alluring enough for Scott. And then, right on cue, my traitorous, stupid brain brought up Braxton. The absolute jerk. Why did he have to come over and talk to me like that today? And why did he manage to look so infuriatingly good doing absolutely nothing? Those dark eyes, the effortless muscle, those—
No. Stop it.
Was I seriously fantasizing about my bully? What was wrong with my mental wiring?
Scott was nice. Scott actually liked me. Scott was a defensive tackle who made goofy jokes and didn’t make me feel like I had to jump through flaming hoops just to earn basic human decency. Yes. I had a good guy who wanted to be with me. That was enough.
Hearing a car horn honk outside, I took one last look in the mirror and headed for the front door.
