### Chapter 6 As I departed The Retreat, a serene atmosphere lingered in the air, underscored by the laughter and chatter of Andrew and Cora, who were deep in their paint lesson with none other than Fredricka Aimes—the renowned artist who had made a name for herself in this corner of the world. I could see Farrah in the periphery, her grateful smile cutting through the mundane grey of the day and sending a ripple of unexpected warmth through my stomach. But I knew better than to dwell on it, especially now; I needed to focus on my upcoming meeting with Jason Romero. Romero was an ambitious man, running for governor and currently under fire for his company's perceived betrayal of American labor through extensive outsourcing. The unexpected request for a meeting with me had piqued my curiosity—a fleeting notion whispering that I should never turn down a chance to explore a new opportunity. So, here I was, preparing myself for an encounter that could shape the course of my day. I slid into my office, savoring the aroma of freshly brewed coffee as I requested a cup from Mia before diving into the depths of my work. My recent interactions with Farrah and her children had captivated me—she radiated an effortless authority, a firm hand cloaked in genuine affection. Those tiny moments of connection had added layers to her already enigmatic character, reinforcing the idea that there was much more beneath her surface. Lost in thought, I was startled when Mia appeared, a steaming cup in hand and flanked by a middle-aged man whose presence commanded attention. “Jason Romero,” he introduced himself, extending a hand that felt both clammy and resolute. I grasped his hand firmly. “Gage Griffen.” Despite the sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, his physical appearance was striking—smooth skin with nary a wrinkle in sight, reminiscent of a man who might frequent cosmetic procedures just like my publicist kept urging me to do. He was impeccably put together—bronzed, with teeth that sparkled white and hair swept in a meticulously styled wave. Every detail screamed sophistication, the kind of sophistication that hit hard when least expected. I motioned for him to take a seat at my polished table, sliding the coffee Mia had brought me into my grasp. “I was just treating myself to a little pick-me-up. Would you care for a cappuccino or some tea?” Jason nodded toward Mia, signaling his interest. “How about a coffee with a splash of cream, doll face?” Mia’s smile faltered momentarily, her brow tightening at the term of endearment before she turned to fetch his order. “Sure.” “Her name is Mia,” I corrected gently as she walked away, wanting to shield her from his presumptions. “What brings you here today, Mr. Romero?” “Call me Jason,” he replied, leaning over the table, hands clasped like a predator assessing prey. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was aware of the mounting sweat threatening to mar the glass surface between us. His gaze wandered to the sprawling view framed by the towering windows. “Hard to believe a kid from Cottonwood Falls is up here in the world.” “It's surprising what resourcefulness and determination can achieve,” I countered. “It just takes the right motivation.” I took a sip of my coffee, maintaining my focus. “But I imagine you’re well aware of that. West Texas isn’t exactly the epitome of urban luxury.” He grinned—a smug camaraderie forming in our shared origins. “You and I are cut from the same mold, Gage. We both comprehend the grind needed to rise from humble beginnings to something remarkable.” I couldn’t help but reflect on how different our definitions of success were. My family farm required my unwavering dedication, yet my vision was to create a business that could uplift families like my own. My father’s ambition revolved around the family—his commitment to ensuring we survived. “I was surprised you initiated this meeting,” I remarked, seeking to cut to the chase. “Election season is firing up; I imagine your schedule is packed.” “This is more important,” he insisted, his eyes narrowing with intensity. “Everyone knows Romero Corp in Texas. I’d wager there isn’t a vehicle on the road that hasn’t utilized parts from one of our facilities.” I nodded, having done my homework. “But let’s not sugarcoat it—many voters want to know why we chose to outsource labor for the sake of profit margins.” The truth stung; I, too, wondered about the implications of such decisions. Manufacturing often came with complications that stretched beyond the pursuit of profit. He continued, “Romero Corp is set to announce a new facility in West Texas. It’ll be smaller but should provide full-time employment for a hundred people. The hitch? Without a significant capital influx, construction won’t wrap up for another… three years.” “Post-election,” I interjected. He affirmed with a nod, revealing his more ulterior motives—a scheme to leverage this development into campaign success, rather than truly benefitting his hometown. “How long do you intend to keep this plant operational?” I pried further. “As long as there’s a workforce,” he stated. “It wouldn’t be beneficial for Romero Corp to launch then shutter it once the votes are counted. Even with the deal I have in mind for you, it will take at least ten years to break even.” I mulled over this revelation, recalling advice from my late mentor, Will Price. He’d warned me of my tendency to be too principled, to miss the broader picture because I focused too closely on moral details. “The people are getting jobs, Griffen; isn’t that what matters? Don't you want in on that?” With that perspective in mind, I leaned forward. “Tell me more.” *** Moments later, I found myself in the back of a town car, enveloped by the familiar presence of my publicist, Tallie Hyde, and Mia, making our way to the Headline Building—home to one of Texas’s largest news stations. As soon as I buckled in, Tallie passed me a sheet of paper emblazoned with “Griffen Industries” in bold black and blue text. “These are your talking points for the interview,” she began, her voice steady. “You’ll be sitting down with Laney Franklin for her segment on Dallas Daze. Today’s narrative is centered around new business developments coming to Dallas in the next year, especially the hotel and how families can enjoy it by next Christmas.” I nodded, memorizing the key points, although they danced around in my head; I knew this project inside out. A moment later, Mia handed me her tablet. “Finance needs your approval on the purchase order for the new flooring; it’s scheduled to commence next week.” I took a glance at the figure, my eyes widening. “How did she convince them to start without a rush fee?” Mia smirked. “That’s all Farrah. She’s exceptional.” I couldn’t help but appreciate Mia’s tip about Farrah. A massive employment gap on her resume made me hesitant, but Mia’s glowing recommendation prompted me to give her a chance. During our interview, her passion radiated like sunlight—she wanted this opportunity so desperately, and that energy made it hard to refuse. “Of course,” Mia replied, her phone pinging mid-conversation as she swiftly typed a reply to a message. She was exceptional in ways I hadn’t experienced before—she didn’t pry into my personal life, yet her understanding of my nuances surpassed that of anyone I had worked with before. She knew I didn’t take calls from my parents—specifically, my mother, since my dad never reached out. Her memory extended to the small details of my life: the hair stylist who visited bi-monthly, the doctor I only saw for testing, my preferences for food, drink, and my habitual late nights in the office. Yet despite the intimacy of our working relationship, she also seemed attuned to my curiosities. “So, Auntie Mia,” I teased. A small smile blossomed on her lips, her eyes flickering behind her glasses. “Yes, Mr. Grumpy Pants?” “I didn’t realize you and Ms. Elkins were so close.” “More like sisters,” she admitted, her gaze softening. “I’m going to her oldest’s baseball game on Saturday.” “What kind of baseball?” I asked, genuinely intrigued. Sports had always been my escape; as a child, I had played nearly every one offered at Cottonwood Falls High School. “Baseball, I think?” she said, her uncertainty apparent. “I was told there would be popcorn.” “The best ballpark snack,” I grinned, just as the car pulled to a stop outside the Headline Building. After sending a quick message in our family chat, I stepped out, excitement buzzing in the air around us as I watched Mia depart. “Gage: Wanna hit some balls at Cottonwood Field this weekend?” The immediate reply came from Rhett: “Only if they’re yours.” *** The sun barely peeked over the horizon as I neared the city limits of Cottonwood Falls, having left Dallas at the crack of dawn. My siblings and I planned to grab lunch before indulging in the nostalgia of our old high school baseball games. As I drove past my alma mater, memories surged—teenage ambitions of keeping our family ranch afloat fading into the rearview mirror. Now, the closest I ever got to ranch work was when my personal chef opted for filet mignon. A familiar tension gripped my chest as I neared the place I once called home, but I gnawed back the ache, determined to forge ahead. We all lived different lives now, paths diverging into uncharted territories. The baseball field appeared before me, just blocks from the school. I parked in a gravel lot that crunched beneath my movements, spotting Rhett’s truck nestled amongst the dust-coated vehicles. Exiting my car, I saw him slide out of his truck dressed in sweats and a hoodie, a travel mug of coffee in one hand while the other rested comfortably in his pocket. “Hey, man!” he greeted, pulling me into a half-hug, the warmth of camaraderie washing over me. “This was a great idea! It’s been ages since I played ball.” “Too long,” I agreed, feeling an itch of nostalgia. Running a business was consuming, demanding my time relentlessly. Our conversation paused as we spotted Henrietta’s SUV rolling towards us, Tyler behind the wheel, a wide grin spread across his face as he waved enthusiastically. Moments later, Liv pulled up in her truck, dust billowing like the excitement in the air. We exchanged greetings before taking out gloves, bats, and a bag of baseballs, and soon we were on the field. Liv insisted on warming up—a classic routine we’d enjoyed since we were kids. We formed a triangle, tossing the ball around while Tyler and Hen passed between one another. “Are you ready for this whooping, old man?” Rhett taunted, his playful smirk lingering. Liv tossed the ball to him. “He just looks old because he hangs out with twenty-somethings.” Seizing the ball Rhett had thrown my way, I quipped, “You both have no idea—I didn’t feel old until Mia brought her kids into the office. Eight and five. I felt like a grandpa!” Liv interrupted, “Grandpa or daddy? You’re at that age where kids are a *thing*.” Rhett pretended to ponder seriously. “I have been called ‘daddy’ before…” “Stop!” Liv exclaimed, throwing her glove at him. Just as Tyler came jogging over, grinning, “I think that’s our cue to start.” Taking our positions, I pushed aside thoughts about Liv’s comment concerning kids. At thirty-something, I was rapidly approaching life milestones I once envisioned, yet the weight of my business often eclipsed any hope I held for a personal life. Fuelled by nostalgia, we divided the field: Liv in left field, Tyler in right, Rhett pitching, Henrietta batting, while I patrolled center field. I watched Hen—formidable with her swing—connecting the bat with the ball that sailed over my head. Laughter erupted as the ball rolled to a stop near the fence. “That’s my wife!” Tyler yelled, pride booming in his voice. “Baddie!” Liv crowed, and I couldn’t help but feel that twinge of unfulfilled longing. “I’ll back up next time,” I called as I dashed after the ball. Hours melted into laughter as we played through the afternoon, losing ourselves in carefree moments. The clouds of the past faded momentarily as we exchanged playful jabs—a welcome reprieve from my dealings with Jason Romero and the myriad responsibilities I carried. In these moments, I cherished the connection to my family, even amidst the joy of knowing that I was still rooted in their lives. Eventually, we adjourned, dusting ourselves off before heading to Woody's, the local diner that held echoes of my high school memories. I recalled the days of milkshakes and fries shared with friends, feelings of invincibility hovering in the air—a stark contrast to how things had changed. Upon entering, a familiar face emerged from the past. Grayson Madigan—owner of the ranch nearest our family’s lands and a childhood friend—spotted us immediately. “If it isn’t the Griffen kids!” he exclaimed, charisma spilling from him as he embraced Liv and Henrietta, clapping Rhett and me on the back like old times. “Haven’t seen you in a minute, Gage.” “Busy with the business,” I replied, forcing a genuine smile even as memories coursed through my mind. “Good to see you.” Grayson engaged us with anecdotes of ranch life, laughter unlocking nostalgia as we navigated our pasts. Each shared moment underscored a shared history, though the distance between us had widened over time. “Great to see you all,” Grayson concluded before we maneuvered through the sea of greetings toward our booth at the back. Settling in, Henrietta nestled beside Tyler, exclaiming her love for their hometown. “It’s like family everywhere,” she sighed contentedly. Tyler agreed. “Cottonwood Falls is where it’s at.” I couldn’t help but feel a hollow pit in my gut as I reminisced about my dreams of settling here with a family of my own. Just as our waitress Agatha arrived—an institution herself, having served meals since before my high school days—the weight of nostalgia dissolved, replaced by intrigue when I spotted a familiar face: my parents. I hadn’t seen them since Tyler’s wedding the year before, and the sight of them felt like a blow to the gut. Dad, who preferred home-cooked meals, would never have come to a crowded place like this on a Saturday. The tension hung thick among my siblings; they began to turn their eyes elsewhere. Liv, however, glared at me, her unspoken plea clear. “Gage, just try. It’s been long enough.” “No. That’s my choice,” I shot back, fists clenching with the simmering anger that rose within me. I had given up a workday for this reunion, only to have my parents crash the party. Every instinct screamed at me to retreat, and I hurried down the narrow aisle wishing I could slip through the wall. As I drew close, my mom’s voice broke the silence. “Gage, you’re looking good today.” “Thank you,” I replied curtly, hastily lifting my gaze to my father. Seeing my reflection in his eyes was painful—we were mirrors of one another: tall, sturdy, and clad with our shared strength. Yet where I was clean-shaven, his hair bore the signs of time—streaks of gray were scattered like the rift between us. I dared to break the silence. “Anything to say, Dad?” He lowered his gaze, a weakness I detested, knowing that eye contact was power in a negotiation. When his eyes lifted again, I braced for impact. He shook his head slightly—a wordless acknowledgment that crashed into me harder than any blow. Silence followed, hanging weighty as shadows deepened. “That’s what I thought,” I spat before turning on my heel and walking out, leaving behind the restaurant, my family, and the town that held so many of my scars.