by Orly Konig
I take a dusty breath, giving my brain and mouth time to confer on an appropriate response. Hopefully my brain will prevail because my mouth is about to offer to help her pack.
“That would be a shame, Mrs. Thomson.” Jillian stops a few paces back, holding on to the disgruntled pony. “I watched Matty ride, and he’s made a lot of progress. Emma can teach him a lot.”
“Please,” Matty whines. Mrs. Thomson harrumphs, then turns and stomps off, the result looking far more comical than menacing in the soft footing of the arena.
I catch Jillian hiding a smirk. I give Matty a leg up and instruct him to walk around the ring a few times so they can both catch their breath.
Jilli and I make our way back to the side of the ring, side by side, watching the dust puff under our feet. It could almost be a flashback scene in a movie, two best friends in perfect sync.
Part of me wishes it could be like that again. But it can’t. And it shouldn’t.
“I realized something during those endless fucking hours of therapy. I don’t want this life. I never did.” Her eyes latch on to mine. There’s no hatred or animosity or bitterness. “I wanted what you wanted. And then I didn’t want it because you wanted it. I’m not making sense, am I?”
“Actually you are. But I don’t understand why.”
“Why I’m making sense?” A dry laugh disrupts the semicalm.
“Why did you turn against me?”
“I was jealous.”
“Of me? What was there to be jealous?”
“Your strength.”
“Me?” My voice squeaks in surprise, unsettling a few pigeons in the rafters and making Matty jump in the saddle.
“Yes, you. Except no one else saw it so they coddled you. That always pissed me off. You had every reason to crumble and yet you picked yourself up, every time, and succeeded at what you were doing. Everyone liked you, you had straight A’s, and you were by far the better rider. I mean look at it, your dad uproots you and moves you to hick-town after your mom tries to off herself. Then she does off herself.”
I cringe.
“Sorry. That was insensitive. I’m still working on that.”
After another silence, she presses forward. “You didn’t have it easy at home and look at the success you’ve become. Me? I had every opportunity for success handed to me and the only thing I can successfully do is screw up.
“I watched you when you first came back. I hated the way you fit in around here. Even after all those years away and the way you left, you still fit. And suddenly I felt like I was the one who didn’t fit. Maybe I never did.”
“That’s why you started drinking, to fit in?”
She nods, her mouth pulled into a tight line. She reaches for the braid and fans the ends between the fingers of her left hand, studying the ends.
A pang of sadness flashes to my core and I swallow the emotion it’s pushed into my throat. How many times had I seen her do that same gesture? I rub my thumb against my ring finger. It’s smooth. I haven’t chewed on it in two weeks.
“Anyway, that was the past. We’re adults now.” She flips the rope of blond hair over her shoulder and straightens. “I realized something else. I’ve missed you, our friendship. I never had another girlfriend I could confide in who understood me. We can’t undo the past. But do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive me?”
The bubble of emotion lodges in my chest. All those fantasies about this exact conversation didn’t prepare me for hearing those words actually spoken. I guess deep down, I never thought she would. Yet here we are.
And I can’t find the words to respond.
I’d never been able to replace the bond, either. For all the friends I have, there’s not one person who ever came close. I learned to be alone. And to be okay with being alone. My father’s death has turned my life upside down. Not because I lost my only living relative, but because losing him brought me out of my “alone shell.”
The discomfort of that realization is magnified by Jilli’s expectation of a reply.
“Of course.” I smile but neither of us is fooled.
I force the next words out. “Now that you’re back, will you take on your full class load and managing the barn again?”
“I’m not coming back.”
I whip around to look at her. “What? Why?”
“I can’t. I guess neither one of us could go back to our former lives.”
“What will you do?”
Her mouth pulls into a smile. “Switch with you. One of our regular students is a fashion designer. She has a studio in Georgetown and is willing to give me a job. Ordering supplies, fulfilling orders, booking meetings, fetching lattes. You know, high-level stuff, stuff I’m good at.” She shrugs off the self-inflicted slight.
“Will you still live here?”
She releases a shaky breath. “I can’t.”
I nod. I understand.
“Are you going to be okay?”
Her mouth quirks into a half smile. “I think so.”
She looks different. No, she looks older. Until now, I’ve been seeing her as a fuller version of the girl I’d last seen sixteen years ago. The changes in Simon and Rena had slapped the air out of my lungs. But Jilli was mostly the same. Until today. I match her smile. “I think so, too.”
She takes a step, hesitates, and turns. “I told them the truth. About the accident. About what really happened. They knew. Even before you told them.” She catches my eye. “I’m sorry, Emma. For what I allowed myself to become and for the way I’ve behaved. Then and now. I won’t make excuses. You deserve more. Now that you’re staying, do you think we’ll be able to move past it, maybe start over?”
I pull my lips into a tight smile. Time stretches out. The unspoken speaks volumes.
“I get it. Well, I should get going.” She steps out of the arena, reluctant to leave.
The old twinge pokes at my insides. Say something, fix this. “You’ll still be coming around. I’ll see you then.”
“The magic of Jumping Frog Farm.” She nods and she’s gone.
Mrs. Thomson is still fussing at Matty at the other end of the ring. He dismounts and pulls the sullen pony out of the arena. His mom waddles off behind him, dusting his back as they go.
I follow, far enough behind, then slip into the lounge. I need something warm to drink, something comforting. It’s times like this I almost miss Bruce and Howard and the corporate politics.
“Oouufff,” someone grunts and I hear the scamper of hooves. Probably that crazy goat.
I step out and collide with Jukebox. He bleats and gives me the evil goat eye, then bounds away.
“What the hell is his problem?” I rub the top of my foot where he stomped, no doubt on purpose.
Ben walks past in pursuit. “He’s mad that Tony took Jack out of the stall. You have a therapeutic client in the indoor, by the way. I’ll try to get the galloping kabob out of there.”
“Leave him. He just wants to be with his best friend.”
Ben meets my eyes.
“It’s okay,” I answer the unspoken question.
I make my way to the small group in the middle of the arena. Tony is holding Jack’s lead rope while a frazzled-looking woman tries to hold a boy still a few steps away.
“Stop moving around, you’ll scare the horse,” she whispers entirely too loud.
“I don’t want to be here,” the boy answers, his voice full with tears. He clings to her arm and tries to hide behind her. I recognize him from a few weeks ago. He’d refused to have anything to do with the horses.
“Hi.” I squat down to his height. “I’m Emma. What’s your name?”
“Tyrone,” the boy answers with little more than a whimper.
“I’m glad you’re here, Tyrone. Have you ever been on a horse?”
He shakes his head, his eyes rolling left, than right, not focusing on me or Jack or even the four-legged blob standing underneath Jack’s belly. Tyrone, I realize, is almost blind.
; “He’s … no,” the woman says, trying to extract her arm while Tyrone clings even tighter.
I take the lead rope from Tony and urge Jack a couple of steps forward. Tyrone squeals and darts behind the lady, although he’s still gripping her arm so both end up twirling in a tornado of arena dust.
“How old are you, Tyrone?”
“Ten.”
“Really? Do you know this goat is also ten? His name is Jukebox.” I slide a step closer to the boy and whisper conspiratorially, “He’s a troublemaker. I bet you’re not, though.”
The boy turns his head until his eye latches on to me.
“You know, I was your age when this big horse was born. Of course, he wasn’t this big back then. That was a long time ago. He’s an old man now, kind of like a grandfather. Do you know your grandfather?”
Tyrone nods, then tilts his head, and I notice his left eye trying to lock on to Jack.
“Is he nice?”
Tyrone mutters, “Uh-huh.”
Jack lowers his head so he’s eye to eye with the trembling boy. Tyrone whimpers and grabs, but his chaperone has stepped out of range. I reach out my hand and he snaps to my side like the other half of a magnet. He’s now closer to Jack than he’d intended but the alternative is to let go of an adult and he’s not going to do that.
“Grandpa Jack won’t hurt you.”
Tyrone’s eyes shift from me to the horse in front of us, back to me, and then to the door. Another whimper vibrates through his lips.
“I’ll tell you a secret if you promise not to share it with anyone.”
The boy quiets, waiting for a secret from an adult.
“When I was a little girl and I’d get scared or sad or lonely, I’d come talk to Jack. He always made me feel better.”
“How?”
“I’ll show you if you let me.” I slide my arm out of his grasp until we’re holding hands instead. I turn his hands over in mine so they’re palms up, cupped in my own. Jack lowers his head. Through Tyrone’s fingers I can feel the warm puffs of breath. The boy tenses next to me but doesn’t pull away. Jack blows another breath into the outstretched hands before resting his muzzle in the hand hammock.
Tyrone’s small body shudders. “He’s soft.”
“Right?” I whisper by his ear. “I think that’s my very favorite part of a horse.”
We stay like that—the horse’s head resting in a boy’s open palms, safely secured in an adult’s hands. Jack’s breathing is slow, his muzzle warm velvet. My hands are warm and protective. Nestled between us, the boy releases the death grip on his fear.
I sneak a look at Tyrone. A lone tear runs down his cheek, in complete contrast to the smile spreading across his face. He pulls his hands from mine and explores Jack’s head. He grabs one of Jack’s ears and bends it down. From behind I sense the movement of the woman and I lift my hand to stop her.
“Grandpa Jack,” he whispers into the tube he’s made of the furry ear. “I’ve been scared a lot. Since my grandpa went away. I want to be with my grandpa but they said I can’t. They said he’s dead. They sent me to live with strangers. I don’t like it there but I like it here. Can I come visit you again?”
Jack leans his head into the boy’s chest and Tyrone wraps his arms around the large black head, tears streaming down his face.
I stand and wipe at my eyes. I catch Tony blinking wet eyes and hear a sniffle from behind.
I pat the gentle giant’s neck and return the evil stare from Jukebox.
Tyrone laughs as Jack flaps his muzzle, tickling the boy’s face.
I’m not the only one who’s found their second chance in the healing power of horses.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
After years in the corporate world, ORLY KONIG took a leap into the creative world of fiction. She is the founding president of the Women’s Fiction Writers Association and an active member of the Writers in the Storm blog. She lives in Maryland with her family. The Distance Home is her first novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
Tom Doherty Associates ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE DISTANCE HOME
Copyright © 2017 by Orly Konig-Lopez
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Daniela Medina
Cover photographs: woman © Getty Images; horses © Shutterstock.com
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-9041-7 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7653-9043-1 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9780765390431
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: May 2017