Wild Love: Chapter 17

I’m tired. Tired from a night spent researching Stan Cumberland and Apex Construction Materials—all of which I found on Rosie’s LinkedIn profile. After I put the Rage Against the Machine version of “How I Could Just Kill a Man” on full blast in my AirPods, I went on a hunting expedition to find out everything I could about the guy.

I just dropped Cora off at school. This morning, she got to talk to her mom on the phone again. She found out we’ll be able to go for a visit soon, and that news lightened her entire demeanor. Then she talked about Rosie the whole way to school. A literal stream of consciousness. I have never seen the girl talk more.

It affirmed the fact that we are probably both obsessed with Rosalie Belmont. The only difference is I’m not the one wearing her bright-pink scrunchie this morning.

Cora is.

I can’t help but smile as I watch her bounce into school. Black and gray from head to toe, but with a blinding pop of pink to tie off the thick braid hanging down her back.

I think about watching Rosie go back to leave that scrunchie for Cora. A token of something I wasn’t privy to. And I don’t need to be. Seeing the way Cora smiled when she came down this morning with it in her hair was enough to know it meant something to them.

I spend the drive back to work running through the list of emails I need to respond to. The calendar I need to create based on a recording studio that has a constantly changing completion date. The inroads I need to make with different labels so that the music I produce doesn’t just languish here in the mountains. The contracts I need to draw up, the orders I need to sign off on, the bills I need to pay for both the studio and the bar.

All that is to say, I spend the drive stressing out about all the things in my life I can’t control. So naturally, when I walk into work, the first place my eyes go is to Rosie’s desk. It’s empty, which is just as well. She doesn’t need me panting around after her when she already has so much on her shoulders. I hope she slept in.

But when I get to my desk, I know she hasn’t. Because there’s another torn page from her journal on my desk. I can’t help but laugh when I pick it up and read the yellow Post-it note on top. It says, “Thanks for last night. You owed me one anyway.”

Confused, I remove the sticky piece of paper and read on.

Dear Diary,

Today I broke my thumb on some vacation bitch’s face. West had to drive me to the hospital because Mom and Dad were both working.

You’d think he’d be worried about me, but nope. He told me he was disappointed I didn’t know how to make a proper fist. He told me I should have pulled her hair instead. I foresee some very questionable fighting lessons in my future based on the way he ranted about how the thumb never goes inside the fist.

How was I supposed to know? I’ve never hit someone. Happy, good girl Rosie doesn’t hit people. Truthfully, I’ve never felt inclined before today.

I’m sad because I’m sure my upcoming volleyball season is fucked.

But I’m not sad I punched her.

I lied and told everyone she insulted Tabitha’s family by making comments about Erika. I only said that because I knew no one would talk about it. That tale is one of those small-town stories that only gets whispered about behind closed doors.

The truth is, she said Ford could be hot if he lost the glasses and found a personality.

She must be stupid because Ford looks just fine, and his personality is good too. She’s probably just embarrassed because he said something funny and she needed her airhead friend to draw a cartoon to explain it to her.

Plus, I’m allowed to rag on him. But I don’t like it when other people do.

Heard she’s fine. Which means I’ll punch her again next time I see her. But with my thumb on the outside.

I must read it three times. It makes less sense every time. Based on the date, Rosie was seventeen and I was nineteen going on twenty when she wrote this. This was our prime bickering era. Her parents worked a lot, and West always included her. She tagged along everywhere with us. I’d have been the same with Willa had we been closer in age, but the five years between us changed that dynamic. And she was often off competing at horse shows in the summer while I bummed around in Rose Hill.

Bummed around in Rose Hill and tried my damnedest to keep from falling in love with Rosalie Belmont.

I’m still trying.

Which is why I shove any feelings about this journal entry down deep—where they belong—and toss the page into the top drawer of my desk.

I walked in here, bound and determined to give her the space and respect she needs to work through this bumpy phase of her life. To support her in any way I can. And to smile when she spreads her wings and takes off again.

Because I’m a grown-ass man. A dad. I can be mature.

Which is why I slump down in my chair and make the phone call I’ve been putting off for far too long now.

A single swipe and my phone rings. Once. Twice.

“Ford!” My mom’s smoky voice fills my ear and I smile.

“Hi, Mom.”

“How’s my boy?”

“Well, as it turns out, I have a daughter.”

I decided earlier that ripping the Band-Aid off would be the best approach.

“And such a knack for delivering big news,” she says.

I knew my mom would be the one to talk to. Where Dad would blow up and calm down eventually, Mom is the steady Eddie. That’s always been our dynamic. Plus, the older I get, the less I want them meddling in my business. I know they mean well, but it irks me all the same.

“Figured it was best to just come out with it.”

“I imagine if you’d done that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” She laughs, amused by her own wisecrack. Something I’ve grown accustomed to with a sex therapist as a mother.

“I donated sperm when I was nineteen.”

“You always have been charitable under that crabby exterior.”

“Mom.”

“I’m sorry. No one prepared me for this conversation. And that’s really saying something considering the things I hear on a daily basis. Care to elaborate on why you were donating sperm? Based on the number of times I found you doing your own laundry with a bright red face, I assumed you were mostly making your donations at home.”

“Fuck my life.” I scrub a hand over my face, wishing the floorboards would give out and drop me down into a dark hole. “I needed money to buy my ticket to the Rage Against the Machine concert. Dad wouldn’t spot me any cash.”

Mom sighs heavily. “Well, you sure showed him.”

My cheek twitches. That’s the exact same thing Cora said.

“Right. Well, anyway, she’s living with me right now. And will be around for the foreseeable future. So if we could not talk about her like she’s a burden, I’d appreciate it.”

That brings on some silence. Like the reality of it is really sinking in.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. Have… have you crossed your t’s and dotted your i’s?”

I know this is her gentle way of asking if I’m being responsible from a legal perspective. I’ve got a lot of assets to consider now, as my lawyer reminded me repeatedly.

“I have. Her name is Cora. And, well, she wants to meet you. And Dad.”

“Yes, this will be special news to break to your father.” I can hear the amusement in her tone. “You conveniently called me at the time of day when you know he works out. Am I meant to let him know? Using your mother as a shield in your thirties is kind of cheap.”

“You know how Dad is. He’s like Willa. They fly off the fucking handle, and then they calm down and get to work. You know he’ll be here wearing his World’s Best Grandpa T-shirt in a matter of days. I just don’t need him to call in the cavalry to save me from this, okay?”

She laughs now. “No doubt about that. Except we’re in Portugal for another few weeks. Then we’ll spend the summer in Rose Hill… You know, I’m really excited to meet her. Why don’t you tell me more about her?”

I’m ready to launch in, already feeling the relief of talking to my mom. “So she’s⁠—”

“No. First, how are you? My boy. How are you holding up?”

I shrug in the empty office, and all it does is remind me of Cora. How am I?

I’m like Rosie. I’m a mess. But I’m keeping it together. However, I don’t tell her that. I opt for, “I’m all right, Mom.”

And then I gush about my daughter.

Mr. Grant,

Just a heads-up that I’m helping Sebastian pick up supplies and will be back in the office shortly. But I wanted to touch base while I wait at the hardware store (so boring!).

I’ve been thinking a lot about merchandising opportunities and took it upon myself to have something drawn up. Attached here is a possible design for a company sweatsuit.

Based on the number of emails the info account gets from female fans I think this could be a great item to offer when the new website goes live. There are plenty of merchandising opportunities for us to explore but, as a woman, I can tell you that I would wear the hell out of this. Artists might like them too! We could even do them as Christmas gifts or something.

Please let me know if you have any thoughts or feedback.

All my best,

Rosalie Belmont

Business Manager at Rose Hill Records

Rosalie,

These sweatsuits are pink. The logo has flowers. And the name of the company isn’t even listed.

Have a happy day!

Ford Grant

CEO and Producer at Rose Hill Records

Mr. Grant,

The pink and the flowers are pretty and feminine and directed at the people who will be purchasing. Maybe we can make a manly version for you with a big, lifted truck and those steel balls that some men like to hang from their back bumper? If you’re interested, I would be happy to get that sample drawn up! You would look downright dashing in blue.

And I’m so glad you brought up the company name. It’s not on there because I’m wondering if you want to go back to the drawing board on Rose Hill Records? I feel like everything in this town is called Rose Hill something or other. It’s very on the nose, you know? Kind of… uninspired.

Looking forward to hearing your thoughts on this. If you’re scowling at me upon my return, I’ll know I’ve gone too far. But it needed to be said.

You’re welcome,

Rosalie Belmont

Business Manager at Rose Hill Records Located in Rose Hill, British Columbia (duh, obviously)

Rosalie,

I appreciate how enterprising you are. You can have the sweatsuit. Especially can’t wait to receive my manly one for Christmas. It sounds exquisite.

But I’m not renaming my company.

Have a happy day!

Ford Grant CEO and Producer at Rose Hill Records (and that’s final.)

“I’m here! And I brought Sebastian!” Rosie announces as she waltzes through the door to the old barn, with my bowling teammate following behind.

Where she’s all smiles, he’s all frowns. But his frown isn’t nearly as deep as when he scowled at Stretch last night.

Bash tips his chin at me and says, “Gonna take a look around,” rolls up the sleeves of his thick plaid shirt and storms off like he’s on a hunt for someone to fight with.

“He’s charming, right?” Rosie whispers conspiratorially as she approaches my desk.

I lean back in my chair, like the extra distance between us will help me want her less.

Spoiler alert, it doesn’t.

I steeple my hands beneath my chin and regard her. She’s doing that thing she always done where she acts extra chipper to smooth out any ripples. I’ve watched her do it with West as a teenager and now she does it so naturally I wonder if she even notices. It’s like she thinks her problems aren’t worthy of attention and solving because they might be inconvenient to other people.

And in that she’d be wrong.

Her glossy smile doesn’t hide the skin around her eyes that’s still puffy from her tears. My chest aches at the thought of her crying alone in that old dingy bunkhouse. And I can’t even bring myself to scowl at her over the suggestion that I rename the company.

Aside from that, she’s polished from head to toe. Hair ironed straight. Wide-leg dress pants in a camel color, topped with a soft, creamy sweater. A gold necklace dangles around her neck, and I remember the way her fingers felt gripping my chain last night on the dock.

My hand absently moves up to it, and I mimic the motion, realizing how close she came to the pendant. When her eyes pop down to my hand, I stop.

I clear my throat. “Sebastian? Oh yeah. All charm.”

“If he’s mean to you, let me know. I’ll punch him. Thumb on the outside.” She winks and holds up a fist before shifting on her feet. It seems we’re both uncomfortable after last night but won’t give voice to it. We can’t talk about it.

I can’t, at least. Or I’ll say something I shouldn’t. I’ll have to stick to action.

She doesn’t need another boss perving on her. And I don’t want to be perv-dad-boss.

So, I fall back on an old faithful—teasing her.

“You sure? Looks like you still don’t know how to make a proper fist. And you’re no good to me with a broken hand.”

She rolls her eyes. “There he is. Ford the dick is back.”

I hate being a dick to her, but I just don’t know how else to act. So, I grab the envelope in front of me and hold it out.

“What’s this?” The tips of her fingers brush against mine when she takes it, and I cover the shiver that races down my spine by shifting in my seat.

“A signing bonus. Employment contract is in your email. I’ll need your direct deposit information for future payments.”

When she opens the envelope, her lips pop open, and her eyes go wide.

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking your permission, Rosie.”

With a quick peek up she says, “Let me clarify: hell no.”

“Hell yes,” I reply impassively.

Her head shakes, but her eyes stay latched on the check, pinched tight between her fingers.

“Nah.” She glares at me head-on now. “It’s too much.”

“No, it’s not. I pay my employees well. Always have.”

She shakes her head. “This is a start-up. It’s not in the budget. I’ve been working on those spreadsheets. I know.”

I tilt my head and give her my best are-you-fucking-kidding-me look. “Rosalie. It’s in the budget.”

“You don’t give people with zero experience a signing bonus like this. I don’t even have references.”

My molars clamp down at the mention of her fucking references. “I do.”

Her lashes flit rapidly, like she’s trying to keep from crying. And god, I hope she doesn’t cry. If she cries, I’ll be up and out of this chair faster than you can say, Stan Cumberland is dead.

“I don’t deserve this.” Her lips wobble as she stares down at the check again.

“Rosalie.” I say, and she takes a deep breath. Our eyes lock, and I give her a moment to get her bearings.

Then I tell her the simple truth. “You are worth every penny.”

Her jaw pops as her teeth clamp down, and her shoulders do this little shimmy as she pulls herself up taller and one hundred thousand dollars richer.

I thought it was enough to help her situation without making it seem like a handout.

Truthfully, it didn’t seem like that much to me. Which is bizarre and wholly out of touch if I let myself think about it.

To Rosie, it seems like this might be a lot of money. But from where I’m sitting, she deserves so much more.

“Ford, I⁠—”

I lean forward, hanging on to her every word.

But that’s when Bash comes stomping back, announcing, “You’ve got mold.”

Rosie mouths a silent but carefully pronounced thank you as she clutches the check to her chest and wipes at the corner of one eye.

And I spend all day wondering what she was about to say.