Only now, as an adult, do I realize how hard staying in a motel can be. Everyone you care about is back at home, carrying on without you. You worry about germs in the towels and sheets, which aren’t fancy at all and are actually cheap and scratchy, and a pizza and beer diet makes you feel like shit.
I send a silent thank you to Dad for making it seem like fun when I realize how hard it must’ve been for him. But only for that. Not for the later shit when he was angry, miserable, and spreading his poison around like fertilizer. I forgive him, mostly, but I still blame him for being weak when we most needed him to be strong.
“Good picks today,” Mark says from his double bed. He’s leaning back against the headboard, long jeans-covered legs crossed at the ankles, his chin dipped low and eyes closed even though he started the conversation.
I grunt, knowing he’ll hear the agreement about the few cows and calves we bought.
“What’d you think of the buyer?” His sock-covered toes wiggle as he scratches one foot with the other.
“He’s all right. Fair price.” I sit on the other bed, elbows on my knees and rolling my neck to stretch out the tension through my shoulders.
Market day is hard on both of us, the high-pressure culmination of a year’s worth of work, blood, and sweat. No tears because we’re fucking cowboys, I think with an internal cocky smirk. It requires chatting up other ranchers about everything from hay prices to cattle weights, and being personable isn’t either of our strong suits.
Even so, we sold every head we brought to the same buyer, making it a convenient exchange. The cattle have already left the sale barn with their new owners, and we’ll load our purchased ones up tomorrow for the drive home. All in all, it’s left us in a good position for the next year of ranching.
Mark grunts.
A full-blown conversation for the two of us.
“I’m gonna walk across the street to the 7-11 for a beer. You want one?” I offer. I don’t give a fuck about the beer, but I know Mark will want some privacy to call Katelyn and I don’t want to be here for whatever they’re getting up to, anyway.
“No thanks. I’ll take a big water bottle, though.” He looks more alert now, eyes open and his phone in his hand.
By the door, I pull my boots back on and lift one brow at Mark. Unspoken code of ‘you’ve got thirty minutes,’ which he answers with a slow blink. This is why we get along so well. We understand each other’s subtle nuances.
I slow walk my way to the store, in no hurry and enjoying the cool night air after sitting on bleacher stands in a warm barn all day. The stars aren’t as visible against the inky sky here, even though we’re not exactly in a busy city, and I realize how comforted I am by the expanse of nothingness around me at home. Here, the buildings, cars, and people feel suffocating. At home, the world feels almost limitless when you stand outside, blanketed by the dark of night.
The convenience store is empty, and I grab a can of Bud and a bottle of water. The cashier seems bored, half looking at his phone while he rings me out. “Have a good night,” he finally says as I walk out the door. I don’t acknowledge the last-ditch attempt at customer service.
At the motel, I lower the tailgate on Mark’s truck and have a seat. My feet dangle, and I kick them a few times, wishing I’d brought my book with me. It’s sitting in my duffel bag in the room, and I’ve still got a good fifteen minutes before I can go back in.
I look at my phone and consider calling Erica. I know she’s at the races tonight and probably busy, but it’d be nice to hear her voice even if it’s on her voicemail.
But I don’t do that.
I crack open my beer and take a long swallow. How in the hell did I get here?
Things I knew—I would die before I lost the farm. I would never settle down. I would fall asleep and wake up every day on the land I grew up on.
Things I know now—I lost the farm, and it’s mostly okay. Damn better than I ever thought it’d be, but I’m sitting down with spreadsheets again to figure out how to get it back. I’m not settled, exactly, but Mark’s insight that this thing with Erica is reminiscent of him and Katelyn has been coming up in my mind more and more. I’d be a lucky fucker to one day have a marriage like his. And I wake up at Erica’s apartment more often than not these last couple of months. There might not be a sunrise over the pasture to greet me there, but the sun shines in through the window over her bed, touching the curve of her hip and highlighting each freckle while I watch each morning. She jokes that it’s creepy to wake up to me eyeballing her, but she always says it with a smile teasing her lips as she stretches and poses, tempting me with wandering fingers along her skin and mine.
My life is nothing like what I thought it’d be, and it’s heading in a different direction than I ever would’ve plotted, but I feel like I’m getting where I’m supposed to be despite the fuck-ups along the way.
My phone rings beside me, rattling on the tailgate. I glance down, but it’s an unknown number so I decline the call, sending it to voicemail. The home screen shows a picture of Erica leaning up against Foxy, her black boots and bare legs the first thing to grab my eye, but then it’s the pissed off look of ‘take the picture already’ that really does me in. Damn, that woman.
The phone rings with the same number, interrupting my view of Erica and irritating me. Damn sales calls, probably a robot dialer. I decline it again.
When it rings immediately, I decide to fuck with the sales guy a little. “What?” I bark into the phone, sounding more pit bull than man.
“Brody?” a soft voice says.
“Who’s this?” I say, sitting up straight. I know the voice, but it’s muffled like they’re not really talking into the phone.
“It’s Emily. Brody . . .” She sniffles and my gut turns to stone. Something’s wrong, I can feel it in my bones. “It’s Rix . . . the races . . . there was a fire.”
My first instinct is always to fight, so I stand like there’s an imminent threat, as if there’s something I can do right here, right now, from hundreds of miles away. “Is she okay?”
“We don’t know. Ed called Dad, said it got her legs, but they won’t let us see her. I thought . . .” A sniffle and a sob this time. “I thought you’d want to know.”
“I’m on my way. Text me the hospital address.” She makes a sound of agreement, and I can hear her dissolve into tears, but I can’t comfort her right now. I have to get to Erica.
I bang on the motel door, three hard raps, and the two short seconds it takes Mark to answer are two seconds too long. “Fuck, man.” Mark’s confused irritation at my aggressiveness with the door changes instantly when he sees my face. “What’s wrong?”
“I need the truck keys.” I don’t wait for him to give them to me, grabbing them off the dresser myself. That’s all I need, keys in my hand and my wallet in my back pocket.
Mark blocks my way at the door. “What’s wrong?”
“Erica. There was a fire at the races. She’s at the hospital. That’s all I know. I gotta go.” He shows no emotion, but he’s gritting his teeth like they did something wrong. I push past him, throwing over my shoulder, “Sorry.”