AN: Hello, my dears!
Oh. My. Dang. I know what you're all thinking: "What the heck, Rachel [that's me]! Why the heckity frick did you take so long to update the VERY LAST chapter of your story?!" Well, IDK if y'all read author's notes-though, I suppose if you're reading this one, then that means you do-but I did mention a few chapters back that it takes me a while to write a decent chapter. Should it have taken this long? No. Do I have excuses? Yes, but they're boring. Am I going to stop asking myself redundant questions in my own author's note so that my readers who read author's notes can actually get to the content they care about? Yes. Yes, I am:)
Happy reading!
Disclaimer: Ally Carter owns Zach, Cammie, and the Gallagher Girl world.
Zach's POV
I barely slept that night. And not just because of the house-shaking thunder and Miles' snores (which were practically just as loud).
No, I couldn't sleep because I had to leave a distressed Cammie with her distressed grandfather, and I knew that I was the reason for all those upset feelings. I tried every trick in the literal book I once read about sleeping in uncomfortable places or while under duress, and nothing helped. So, I just laid there, playing and replaying everything I said, picturing and repicturing Mr. Morgan's expression, and imagining and reimagining the consequences that would come with the morning.
When the morning did arrive, it was with an uncomfortable quietness. The storm had stopped around 3 a.m., which, unfortunately, was just an hour before Miles' alarm went off. Wide awake already, I slipped out of the guest room as he groggily sat up. I didn't need a replay of last night, when he'd entered the room with nothing to offer but a sympathetic expression and a "hang in there" pat on my shoulder.
I knew he'd been listening when I'd recounted the events of the evening. And he'd probably stayed to hear Cammie and Mr. Morgan have it out. Needless to say, his consolatory pat wasn't reassuring.
The dim hallway was quiet and empty, so I stepped into the only bathroom and ran through a basic hygiene routine before anyone else emerged from the woodworks. After brushing my teeth, I splashed my face with cold water multiple times to ease the burning in my eyes after the sleepless night. It didn't help much, but I still did it for a mini eternity.
"Can't stay in here forever," I finally murmured to my dripping reflection. It looked back, tired and resigned, so I closed my eyes and thought of Cammie. She was worth it. And we would stay together whether Mr. Morgan approved of me or not. I just needed to get over myself and be ready to be whatever she needed me to be today, because this was definitely going to be harder on her. After all, I was used to parental rejection.
I stepped lightly as I walked down the stairs. I wasn't sure where I was going, maybe to collect eggs or start one of the other foolproof chores. All I knew was that I physically could not sit around and wait for some kind of verdict to drop.
Mrs. Morgan kept the empty egg cartons on top of the fridge, so I pushed through the door to the kitchen and–
Mr. Morgan sat at the kitchen table—though, lounged might've been a better word for it. He had a mug in his hand, and he looked at ease, well-rested, and…expectant.
I wanted to kick myself. I'd smelled the coffee upstairs. I should've known he'd be here and taken another route. Though, on second thought, perhaps this was for the best. Might as well rip this BandAid off now, right?
"Mr. Morgan," I greeted with a nod, then waited for him to lay into me.
He acknowledged me with a nod of his own but didn't say anything. Just took another sip of his coffee.
I was usually pretty good at improv while in the field. Missions rarely went exactly to plan, so adaptability was often the difference between survival and coming home in a coffin. But somehow, in this situation, I was frozen. I didn't know what to do next to salvage this particular mission. Did I sit to show I was man enough to face him? Or did I stand out of respect? Did I keep quiet and wait for him to break the silence? Or did I take the initiative and just ask the questions I wanted answers to?
Where do we stand? And what does that mean for Cammie?
While I debated, Mr. Morgan took a final drink and stood. He placed his mug in the sink, and then, to my astonishment, went out the side door without a word.
Embarrassed, I heaved a heavy breath and rubbed at my sore eyes. If that had been some kind of test, I'd definitely failed it. What was I thinking? Just standing there like an idiot. Even an attempt at small talk probably would have been better than doing nothing at all.
This was…this was fine. I knew before coming here that the Morgans liking me was going to be a long shot. I'd honestly expected them not to approve, so feeling this…disappointed…it was stupid. I was being stupid. I didn't need their approval to date or to love Cammie. She chose me, I chose her, end of story. What I needed right then was to grab the cartons, collect the eggs, and get this day over with so Cammie and I could head home tomorrow. At least back in D.C. I'd be dealing with easier things, like Chinese water torture training and coded message encryption in Swahili.
I crossed the kitchen to the fridge, but before I could reach for the egg cartons, the side door reopened a crack.
"You comin'?" Mr. Morgan asked, then he was gone again.
I stared after him dumbly. For one ridiculous second, I half convinced myself that he was taking me outside to pick out my own switch. Did country folk still do that kind of thing? I shook my head and dispelled the thought. Besides, while his tone had been gruff, I hadn't missed the not-quite-a-smile-but-definitely-not-a-frown he'd flashed for his brief reappearance. Something like hope kicked at my heart. Because whatever Mr. Morgan was leading me to didn't really feel like a punishment, it felt more like a second chance.
Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting in the passenger seat of Mr. Morgan's rusty pickup, bouncing along as we hit pothole after pothole. The truck had been idling in the front yard when I'd come out the side door, motor grumbling, headlights blinding in the still dark morning—as expectant as Mr. Morgan had been while sitting at the kitchen table. I'd climbed in, and wordlessly Mr. Morgan had taken off.
Now, as we bumped down the sorry excuse for a road that was as rough as the terrain around it, we continued not to speak. I'd never been someone who felt compelled to fill a silence. But with so much unsaid between us, I couldn't help feeling awkward; though, you'd never know it. A brief glance at Mr. Morgan told me he wasn't feeling uncomfortable at all. That, or he really should've become a spy himself with such a flawless poker face at his disposal.
Eventually, we turned onto a tiny path that was barely visible amongst the trees, and the drive, ironically, became smoother after that, despite the frequent crunch of fallen branches beneath the tires. A full three minutes went by as we crept slowly along the winding trail in the woods, until finally the trees opened up to a yard in disarray and a small, shabby house that had clearly seen better days. Not a path then, a driveway. A really long driveway with an underwhelming conclusion. Mr. Morgan pulled up beside a pickup that was even rustier than his own, and we squealed to a stop.
We sat for a moment in—you guessed it—more silence. I almost wanted to laugh because literal crickets were chirping outside to really drive the point home. Only, I wasn't amused. I was starting to get really frustrated, actually. If his genius plan to let me know how much he hated me was to ignore me, then he could've given me the silent treatment back at the ranch instead of confining me to this truck cab of awkwardness.
I was just about to tell him so when Mr. Morgan grabbed a heavy-duty lantern from the backseat and got out. I sighed and got out, too. It seemed our odyssey wasn't done yet.
With the headlights off, I could hardly see anything, but then I heard a faint click, and the lantern came to life, illuminating practically the whole yard. To be fair, it wasn't that large. Perhaps it was big by D.C. standards, but it was small compared to the Morgans'.
Mr. Morgan set the lantern on the hood of his truck and started walking toward the tree line. There wasn't anything over there as far as I could tell, but since there was nothing I could do but blindly hope and trust that this was going somewhere, I followed.
I was only a few paces away when he stopped, bent down, and picked up a huge stick. I hesitated, wondering if I'd been right about the whole "pick out your own switch" thing. Though, if he was planning on beating me with the near-log he held in his hands, he'd have a heck of a time wielding it.
But rather than putting me over his knee or even running at me with it raised like a baseball bat (which, honestly, would've been more practical), he simply held it out to me. Tentatively, I took it. Was it to be sabers, then?
He bent, picked up another fallen branch, and handed that one to me, too.
Okay?
He did this several more times till my arms were full and the stack I held was piled up to my eyes. Then he jerked his head, jutting his chin in the direction of his truck. It didn't take a genius to figure out he wanted me to put these branches and twigs in the bed of the truck, but I still didn't understand why he couldn't just use his words and tell me what to do.
I suppressed an eye roll and took my load to the truck, dropped it off, and came back for more. Because there was more. So. Much. More. The tornado the weatherman had predicted hadn't made an appearance, but the high winds and pounding rain had clearly taken a toll on the trees. Broken limbs of all sizes covered the yard, and it was becoming evident that Mr. Morgan intended to clear them all away.
We worked our way around the whole yard, taking breaks when the bending became too much for his knees or back. I kept going whenever he rested, eager to get this particular chore over with so we could get back to the ranch and I could talk to Cammie about what her grandpa had said last night. I clearly wasn't going to get anything from the source.
Dawn eventually lightened the sky from midnight black to overcast gray, bringing with it a heavy, damp air that coated the tall grass, the remaining branches, and me. The moisture seemed to seep into my clothes, teaming with my sweat to plaster my t-shirt and jeans to my body. Not a pleasant feeling.
Thankfully, it wasn't too long after the sun's appearance that we finished. I tossed the last bundle onto the pile, and then we stretched a couple bungee cords across the haul to keep it in place. Once I hooked the last cord, Mr. Morgan nodded, approval evident on his face. And I had to pretend to wipe sweat off my upper lip with the back of my hand to cover up my small smile. That nod was probably the kindest thing he hadn't said to me all week.
In unison we walked to our respective truck doors, but just as we were about to pull ourselves up into the cab, the front door to the house opened and an elderly couple stepped out. The two looked around their clear yard, and the woman beamed and called out, "Bless you, Virgil!" The man raised a grateful hand, and Mr. Morgan raised one back in acknowledgment. The gesture spoke of many years of neighborly kindness. Nothing owed. Nothing expected in return. I think I was starting to understand why Cammie loved it out here so much.
And I think I was starting to understand Mr. Morgan a little better, too.
We took the haul back to the Morgan Ranch—the silence filling the truck as we drove was almost comfortable that time around—and unloaded it far from any trees or buildings onto a large circle of burnt earth and ashes, creating either the beginnings of a great bonfire or the foundation of my funeral pyre. I figured it depended on how the rest of my time with Mr. Morgan went.
When the bed was empty, we got in the pickup again. I expected him to take us back to the ranch proper, but Mr. Morgan kept driving, passing the barns, the houses, and a couple of the ranch hands—who I could've sworn were exchanging knowing looks. Back onto the bumpy road we went, this time in the opposite direction. I was unsurprised when, a short while later, we pulled up to another house with a storm-wrecked yard. Now that I knew the drill, I was happy to get out and get to work. It was nice to help people in ways that didn't involve secret identities and/or explosives for a change.
By the time we finished the second yard it was just before noon, and the sun was high enough and bright enough to pierce through the thin layer of gray clouds that struggled to hold their places in the sky. Its rays beat down on my back and head, and I'd lost count of the number of times I had to wipe sweat from my eyes and chin.
We drove back to the ranch and added the new batch to the pile. After I'd tossed the last branch, I turned and briefly caught Mr. Morgan's gaze. Approval was there, as it had been before, but if I wasn't mistaken, it even went a step further than that. He looked…proud.
In the next second he was swiping at a fly that buzzed around his face, and the expression was gone, but it had been there, and it had been nice. A warm feeling took root beneath my sternum. I rubbed at the spot and smiled. It was at that moment I knew I'd be a part of this family someday. Not only that, but I would be a welcomed and loved member, too.
I really needed to rethink my timeline with Cammie. Perhaps a discussion about the "M" word didn't need to be that far in the future.
Thankfully, we didn't go out for a third cleaning trip. I had decent stamina, and Mr. Morgan had brought along plenty of water for the two of us while we worked, but he hadn't provided any snacks, and I was running on an empty tank. I imagined he was, too.
We parked in front of the main house, and I perked up when I saw Cammie walking down the porch steps toward us.
"Where have you guys been?" she demanded as I got out of the truck and stepped forward to meet her. "I was looking for you all morning."
I gestured to the dirty truck bed that still needed swept of wayward twigs and leaves. "Just cleaning up debris from the storm."
She narrowed her eyes and lowered her voice. "You're smiling. What did he say to you?"
I shrugged. "Nothing."
Mr. Morgan rounded the truck. "What's Marion got cooking for lunch, Dolly?"
"Reuben sandwiches," she said slowly, eying him suspiciously.
His face lit up. "Great. I'm famished. Nice work today, son," he said to me with a firm pat on my shoulder. My smile grew wider.
Once he walked out of earshot, Cammie socked me in the arm.
"Ow!"
"What was that?" she asked, gesturing between Mr. Morgan's retreating form and myself. "'Son'?! What did he say to you?"
"Nothing."
Her eyebrows arched and her head tilted, unconvinced and exasperated.
I held up my hands. "I'm telling the truth. Those were the first words he's spoken to me since we left this morning."
"Whatever." She crossed her arms and gave an irritated sniff. "Thanks for telling me about your little boy's date. It wasn't like I was running around here worried that my grandpa and my boyfriend were out somewhere dueling with hunting rifles or something."
Her pout was adorable, and I'd missed her so much this morning, so I couldn't really help myself. Before she could say more, I grabbed her waist, pulled her close, slid an arm to her back, and dipped her into a passionate kiss. I held her tightly and drew on her lips deeply, slowly, kissing her like one might sigh in relief after the weight of the world had been lifted from his chest.
Eventually, I set a breathless Cammie back on her feet, but I kept her in the circle of my arms, not willing to let her go and join the others quite yet.
"Sorry for leaving without telling you," I murmured into the soft hair at her temple. "I didn't know about our little boy's date till I was already on it. Though, I'm sort of glad he didn't tell you his plans. You would've tried to come along."
She hummed. "Probably."
"Exactly." I picked idly at a loose thread on her shoulder. "I think your grandpa and I needed this. That thing you said last night about my character shining through on its own, you were right. We didn't speak at all, but Mr. Morgan got to see a glimpse of the kind of man I am, and vice versa. We aren't buddy-buddy or anything, but there's a mutual respect now, and I can work with that. The rest will come with time."
The week had been rough. Feelings of insecurity, jealousy, and inadequacy had for sure wreaked some emotional turmoil in my head. But I couldn't really be mad about any of the bad things that happened. Not when the end result was love that expanded to the point of pain in my chest, an overwhelming sense of peace, and certainty for a future with the woman in my arms.
Cammie was quiet, so I gave her a squeeze. "What are you thinking?"
She pulled back a bit so she could look at me. "I'm thinking I'm really happy." Her smile spread and found her eyes, crinkling the corners. "I'm thinking you're really amazing." She brought her hands to my cheeks. "And I'm thinking you smell really, really bad." She used her hold on me to shove my face away, laughing when I stumbled back.
I glared at her. "Kind of ironic how you're offended by how I smell, because you're about to smell the same way."
Her eyes widened when she picked up on my intentions, and then she took off running.
I chased after her, following closely behind as she darted in zigzags around the open yard.
"Don't you dare, Zachary Goode!" she yelled back at me. "I know where you live, I know what you fear, I know what you love, I know–"
She shrieked when I finally caught her around the waist and spun her in dizzying circles, just like I had when we'd first arrived at the beginning of the week. As she laughed through her cries to stop, I thought back to that day. I had been hopeful then, but it had been a guarded hopefulness that wanted one thing yet anticipated another.
Right then, though, my hope was genuine, expectant. The Morgans would grow to accept me, like me, love me, even. Cammie and I would just have to keep coming back when we could. Our superiors at the agency probably wouldn't be opposed to a yearly week off. They all knew what it felt like to be a spy coming home.
"Just so you know," a feminine voice called out from the porch, Mrs. Morgan's voice, "being late to 12:30 lunch on a farm is also a carnal sin."
AN: Well, friends, this is it! Thank you so, so much for sticking around and reading this story to its completion. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your readership and all of the kind words you've left me in the comments. You are all amazing...but you already knew that;)
I know this story isn't groundbreaking or all that intense and thrilling, but it is still very special to me. Cammie's grandparents, while different in personality (for storytelling purposes), were sort of based off my own farming grandparents. They never lived on anything so big and industrious as a cattle ranch, but their little farm was still an exciting haven to a younger me, and I will never forget all of the memories my brothers and I made there. My grandpa passed while I was in the process of writing this story, so even though this is just fanfiction, and even though this post marks the end, rather than the beginning, I'm dedicating this story to my Grandpa Virgil.
Grandpa, you will always be one of the kindest and most patient people I've ever known. Thank you for your love and for always wishing for me to have the happiest and fullest life possible, just like the life you led. I love you and miss you. Rest now. P.S. I'm sorry for driving your truck into the creek when I was 11. Thanks for being such a good sport about it XOXO.
Alright y'all, I hope your enjoyed this story! I've said it before and I'll say it again, you're the best, and I hope you all have a great day, an awesome week, an exciting year, and a happy and fulfilling life.
Much love, Rachel
