Ridley Holland has just lost the love of her life. She has no desire to return to the world of motocross, but she knows Teuvo would want her to continue. So she plays the part: an upcoming professional athlete with inevitable determination to domina...
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Jacks
Astrid and Nils Gallagher adopted Nat and me when we were kids. When they visited the foster home we were living in, they were drawn to us. We've never been able to get a straight answer from them. The process of adapting to a new life was difficult. Nat and I both had unpleasant experiences with previous families, the type who adopt children for the extra income. They never cared about us. Not like Astrid and Nils did—do. When we learned how to cope with the trauma we experienced, it was like stepping into a new life. Astrid and Nils will always be my mom and dad. I love them more than anything on this planet.
Wherever they are is where home is.
Right now, I'm sitting in a chair at the island, wolfing down a slice of homemade cherry pie with vanilla ice cream. The pie is hot, burning my tongue with every bite, but the melting ice cream soothes the pain. As I eat, I survey my surroundings. I'm familiar with the space—it's where they raised us—but the kitchen has always wowed me. Mom's kitchen is sleek and modern, with brass accents complementing the swirled marble and black cabinetry. The open-concept kitchen smells like fresh cherries and buttery crust with a hint of vanilla. Nat is standing beside Mom, pitting the fresh cherries I picked this morning.
Mom and Dad own acres of farmland, with almost all of it (save for a small pen of chickens) being dedicated to cherry trees. During the spring, it's one of my favourite places to visit. I'll walk for hours in amongst the fragrant blossoms and green grass, soaking up the beauty this valley has to offer. The Okanagan is known for its fruit production—apples, cherries, peaches, pears. During my teenage years, I would help Dad pick cherries in the early summer. I still do. However, he's injured his back because of a mountain biking wipeout. He's okay, but the doctors advised him to avoid any strenuous activities. And ripening cherries won't pause for him. I spent eight hours today picking cherries—and I didn't even get through half of the trees. Exhaustion is creeping into my bones now, but I'm glad I had the time to think and process my thoughts while snacking on fresh cherries.
No matter where I try to guide my brain, it always ends up back at Ridley. She's been the epicentre of my thoughts for days now, and I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. I'm caught up on the festering mystery; it clings to every waking moment. Something feels off, and while assuming Martin is involved in inappropriate behaviour with Blakely seems pliable, I have this gut feeling there's something else. Something lurking in the shadows that threatens to destroy this relationship we've built.
Also... we've been texting back and forth. If the texts were focused on improving Ridley's technique or scheduling appointments, I wouldn't feel guilty. The problem is theses texts are recreational. They're not even focused on our sleuthing. Instead, we talk about random shit like news articles on Castanet, summer plans, and she's even admitted to having severe eco-anxiety. Through all these conversations, I've concluded one thing: through this relationship we've created, Ridley trusts me—somewhat. That signifies a massive improvement not only for us, but for Ridley's recovery process.
