Gunner sighed deeply. He wanted to smile, but his lips wouldn't cooperate. He wanted to pull Bree into a hug and hold her tight and kiss her, but his emotions felt as though they had drained every ounce of energy.
His eyes drifted down to her hand before he finally gave in and reached his arm around her shoulders to give her a light squeeze. "I'm sorry... I know I'm not very good company right now. Thanks for smiling anyway."
He shrugged, trying to stay on task and bring the conversation back around to her original question. "You can fix something if you like. I'm just not very hungry, so if you'd rather not bother, that's fine too. I'm really okay with whatever you and JT wanna do."
"Hey, babe!" Eric leaned against the wall inside the truck stop, trying not to get distracted by all the noise around him while he was using the pay phone. "Mick tell you about my phone? Totally smashed. Sorry it worried ya. This was the first chance I got to pull off and give ya a ring."
He glanced at his watch, knowing that he needed to get back on the road as soon as possible. "Listen, um...first, I just wanted to let you know I was alright and I'll call again while I can - I need your number again though 'cause I never did memorize it." He inwardly rolled his eyes at himself. He never could memorize anything worth a lick. Not anymore. "And second, there's a possible change in plans. I should be back to the ranch in a couple days, and...I was scheduled to leave again just for a week. As it turns out though, I've been offered a new run instead. The only hitch is that I'll probably be on the road about four weeks, cross country." He paused, knowing that Stacy wouldn't like the sound of that. Not that he liked it himself, but it was a job. "The pay is almost too good to pass up - sure could use the money. What with you and Ash though, I...guess I thought I'd see what you had to say about it."
Garret wished this moment could last forever, but he knew it couldn't. It was amazing that their relationship had gone undetected this long. At any moment, they could be discovered, and never be allowed to see each other again...or worse. Garret would never forgive himself if Victoria was harmed because of their love. He would rather hide all of his feelings even from her, than watch her suffer because he let his emotions get the best of him. As it was, with her loving him in return, this was all they had. It was what they had.
"I need to go before I'm missed." He again spoke quietly, still gazing into Victoria's eyes. "In three days, I leave again. Keep your ears sharp... I sense your grandfather has plans for my future but he has yet to reveal them to me." It wasn't like Medridge to keep Garret in the dark, but something had been off. Perhaps the elderly man had sensed Garret's recent disapproval of several missions. If that was the case, Garret would need to be extra careful - which might mean crossing one too many lines...like he always did.
"Hey...anybody home?" Clay entered the house and glanced around, unsure who was home, according to the vehicles in the driveway.
"Oh, hi, Clay." Rick poked his head out of the living room, checking to make sure the voice he'd heard was indeed his nephew's. "Anything exciting happening?"
Clay scoffed. "No."
"Job hunt went that well, huh?"
"Pretty much." Clay wandered into the living room and flopped down on the couch before taking off his ball cap and sighing deeply. "I'm beginning to think I shoulda found a crap apartment and gone on welfare."
Rick smirked. "It's no wonder you can't find anything with an attitude like that."
Clay only rolled his eyes.
Rick shook his head and eased down in his chair again, picking up the book he'd been reading. His concentration was short-lived though, as his mind wandered back to earlier in the day when he'd found the discarded paper by the waste basket. "Hey, Clay?"
His nephew glanced up without much enthusiasm. "Yeah?"
"I saw something earlier. I know it was trash, but it just caught my eye so I took a closer look."
Clay's eyebrow arched. "Do I really want to know what you saw in the trash?"
Rick's smirk returned. "It was that poem you wrote."
"Huh? What poem?"
"About the dark wings."
Clay blinked. "You read it? After I threw it away?"
"Well, technically it was on the floor, but yeah, I did."
Clay's eyes darkened. "So much for privacy."
"Look, I'm sorry, but I just...wanted to make sure you were okay."
"I don't get it."
"Well, the poem is pretty dark."
It was several moments before Clay blinked again. His voice was less than approving. "You've got to be kidding me."
Rick set aside his book. "No, I'm not. I just wondered if you're okay, that's all. I care about you."
"Because of some stupid chicken scratch?" Clay rose to his feet in disgust. "Give me a break. If I wanted someone to dissect my psyche, I'd go see a shrink."
"Settle down. I didn't mean to offend you."
"Well you did." In an attempt to end the conversation, Clay turned and left, heading upstairs to what was currently his bedroom. A few minutes later as he was seated on his bed though, the knock on the door came as no surprise. "What?"
Rick sighed and cautiously opened the door. "Are you really okay?"
"Would you get off it?!" Clay stood again. "I can't help it you've never read anything other than medical books and newspapers. If you're shocked by a little darkness, then you've been living in a hole."
"I'm not shocked, I just wondered where it came from."
"Who cares? It's stupid anyway. It was just something I wrote down out of my own dumb mind. End of story."
"It's far from dumb," Rick defended. "Dark or not, it's a very good piece of writing."
Clay paused for a moment, not sure how to take all this. "It's garbage."
"It is not! Who told you it was?"
"Everything I've ever tried turns out to be garbage," Clay hissed. "Now would you just drop this thing? I'm not gonna go shoot my brains out, if that's what you're worried about, so just forget about it!"
Rick held up his hands in surrender, even though he was confused and unsatisfied. "Okay, fine. It's over. I gotta run to work here in a bit to grab some paperwork. If you wanna tag along, you're more than welcome."
Clay only grunted his response before he flopped back down on the bed, curling around his pillow.
Giving up for now, Rick shut the door quietly and headed downstairs again. He hadn't thought he'd been wrong to ask Clay about the poem, but why had the reaction been so poor? Was Clay really more depressed than he let on? And what was with him thinking the piece of writing was so stupid?
Left alone, Clay finally rolled over to stare up at the ceiling. Dark wings. Maybe he did feel like the poem. But it was none of Rick's business. And it was a crappy piece. All of his writing was. His dad had been right.
