by Toler, B N
I’d regret it until the day that I died.
Kansas was hot as hell. We didn’t get to my grandmother’s house until late in the evening, and it was still ninety degrees. In May. I could only imagine what June through August would be like.
My mother had insisted we stay for the summer—a getaway she’d called it. In her mind, with my musical career starting to spike and my first real tour looming in the near future, I needed a little break. It was my last chance to really be a kid, even though I’d argued strongly that I wasn’t a kid—I’d be eighteen in June—but there was no deterring her.
So off to Kansas we went.
My grandmother had passed away years before, leaving her house to my mother, her only child. I’d only been to her house a few times growing up, short weekend trips here and there. Most of the time Nana had flown out to Texas to see us. It had only taken me one day to realize why we hadn’t visited her often—there was absolutely nothing to do in Middle-of-Nowhere, Kansas.
Nothing.
After a few days of lazily swaying on the porch swing, sipping iced tea and plucking out a new song on my guitar that my father would probably veto as soon as he heard it, I was about to tear my hair out with boredom.
“This is so unfair,” I whined when my mother refused to bend to my whim. “What am I supposed to do? Just sit here all summer? There’s not even any Wi-Fi!” I flung myself dramatically on the couch in true teenage despair as she arranged some books she’d brought neatly on the barren shelves in the living room.
“You could help me pack up all of this stuff for the church rummage sale,” she suggested.
I glanced over at the items she’d collected from various rooms in the house and rolled my eyes. “Really, Mama? My last summer of being a kid, and you want me to spend it helping you scrap all of Nana’s stuff you don’t want?”
“Ride a bike, Emalee,” she replied, exasperated. My over-the-top theatrics were starting to wear her down and she was running out of patience. “You’ve got two legs that work just fine. My old bike is in the barn.”
“I’m almost eighteen. Making me ride a bike is ludicrous!”
“A seventeen-year-old with an Audi is what’s ludicrous,” she muttered.
My father was an affluent businessman with an extremely successful consulting career in the oil industry; as such, he rarely said no whenever I asked for anything, and continually spoiled me even when I wasn’t asking. For my seventeenth birthday, he’d surprised me with a shiny new Audi with all the bells and whistles, but it turned out he hadn’t discussed the lavish gift with my mother, and it had become a huge point of contention between them. They’d argued constantly over it, neither one willing to give; right up until I crashed it into a tree a couple months ago while trying to retrieve my phone from where it had fallen on the floor board. Though it had scared both of them, effectively quelling the fighting, my mother immediately began hovering over me in every aspect of my life.
According to her, I was spoiled and needed a different perspective. When she’d proposed traveling to Kansas and spending the summer, I’d vehemently protested, but my cries had fallen on deaf ears. Because of my devotion to music and singing, and all of the lessons I’d been taking, I had been homeschooled and completed the equivalent of my senior year in May. As I had no plans to attend college and my entire future was dependent upon my father helping me pursue my dreams of a singing career, I’d had no choice but to comply. My father, already in the proverbial doghouse, had no sway in the matter, even though he loathed the idea of spending the summer in Kansas just as much as I did.
My mother had grown up in Kansas with simple people and simple things, and when she met my father, he’d swept her away into a life of prestige. Even though I’d been raised with money, she’d done her best to keep me grounded. She’d forced me get a job at McDonalds when I was sixteen, and I’d spent the year smelling like chicken nuggets and learning just how vile someone could get when you accidentally messed up their order. I’d detested her for making me work there under the guise of teaching me the meaning of hard work. It wasn’t as if I’d been a slacker; my grades were excellent and I was completely focused on my lessons.
Busying herself with unpacking her books, she hadn’t stopped me when I’d stomped out of the room, nor had she seemed to care that I’d spent the next two days cooped up in my room just to spite her. Eventually, though, the boredom won out and in desperation, I made my way to the barn.
That’s when I found Pinky.
She was a pastel pink vintage bicycle hidden in the back of the barn behind a wall of dust-covered junk. The small metal basket that hung on the front was only slightly rusted, and one wheel let out a protesting squeak as I rolled it out. My mother’s features lit up when she saw it, smiling like she’d seen an old friend.
“The trouble I got in with this old thing,” she reminisced as she ran her delicate hand over the handle bar.
Twisting my mouth in disbelief, I scoffed, “What kind of trouble can someone get in with a bike?”
She gave me a coy smile. “Emalee, I grew up in the middle of nowhere, smack dab in the center of farmland. All of my friends lived on farms, and we were surrounded by endless fields of wheat.” She met my disbelieving stare dead-on, and with a hint of mischief in her eyes added, “Use your imagination.”
Ew. Even on the cusp of adulthood, my mind still wasn’t ready to imagine what she was implying. “I don’t want to know.”
She just laughed. “Your mother was once a young girl, too, ya know?”
“I prefer not to imagine the youthful debauchery you participated in in any wheat field, Mother.”
Together we cleaned it off, sprayed the chain with some WD-40 and Pinky was good to go. She still looked a little rough around the edges, but I dug it. She had character; a history. Also, it was the only set of wheels I was allowed to operate. Still, I had a feeling Pinky would do just fine.
My mother pointed to the right. “Town is eight miles that way.”
My mood soured as I stared off in the direction she pointed, then I scrunched my face as I looked up to assess where the sun was. “You could let me drive your car,” I hinted, my tone annoyed because I already knew her response.
“Eight miles on a bike won’t kill you,” she offered.
“No, just dehydration and heat stroke,” I dead-panned.
Her mouth lifted into a tight smile. “Well if heat exhaustion takes you down, I feel better about you crashing a bike rather than a car.”
When I sneered at the thought of pedaling a bike eight miles, she shook her head. “That’s nothing on a bike, Em. Go on and explore a little bit. Your father and I could use a little alone time.” The word ‘alone’ was loaded with insinuation.
“Mama,” I groaned. The thought of my parents having sex made me want to take a scouring pad to my brain, and I certainly never wanted to hear her imply they did. Of course she knew this, and it made her want to imply it all the more.
“Bye, Emalee. Don’t come back for a few hours.” As she walked away, she threw her hand up lazily in a wave goodbye.
“I hope some pervert kidnaps me from the side of the road and chops me into a million pieces!” I yelled to her, but she only chuckled and continued to walk away. Was this place really so boring she wouldn’t even entertain the idea that I could be abducted?
I inspected the bike once more before going inside and collecting my things. An eight-mile bike ride warranted some preparation. Ten minutes later I walked out the door, my purse loaded with the essentials and clutched under my arm.
With my purse seated nicely in Pinky’s front basket, I was on my way. It didn’t take long for me to realize the cliché about riding a bike didn’t take into account every bike-riding scenario.
When I’d mastered riding a bike as a kid, it had been on the smoothly paved streets in a Texas suburb. Not a gravel driveway riddled with massive mud puddles and uneven ground. Navigating down the mile and a half driveway took some work
—my mother forgot to include the driveway in the eight miles—but once I hit the main road, I started to get the hang of it.
Wheat.
Nothing but wheat and the hot-ass sun bearing down on me.
Sweat trickled down my back in no time and my hair stuck to my neck, forcing me to stop and tie it up in a messy knot. I pedaled faster, enjoying the air hitting my face. I would never admit it to my mother, but it actually wasn’t so bad. The road dipped down a decent-sized hill, allowing me to take a break from pedaling as the momentum propelled the bike for me. I threw my hands up and laughed, remembering a time when I really was a kid, and this kind of thing gave me the greatest thrill.
Of course, that’s precisely when it all went wrong.
The front wheel hit a small rock and sent Pinky off course. By the time I grabbed the handle bars, it was too late. The bike veered to the side of the road and dropped into a rut, the sudden stop launching me into a ditch next to a field of wheat.
“Shit!” I howled as I landed with a thud just before Pinky landed on top of me, scraping my leg. My back hurt and my leg burned, and despite knowing they weren’t serious, I opted to lay in the ditch and wallow for a moment. Really? Did that really just happen?
“Ride a bike,” I griped to myself in an over-the-top imitation of my mother, which actually sounded a lot like Oscar the Grouch. “You’ve got two legs,” I went on, my face twisted in frustration. No doubt, this was all her fault. How dare she make me ride a bike. This never would have happened if I’d been safely buckled in a vehicle.
With a forceful shove, I pushed Pinky off me, and she toppled on the other side, clanging against the road. I winced at the sound, feeling guilty for letting her fall. I hissed at the bolt of pain that shot up my leg when I finally pulled myself to my feet. Great. I’d twisted my ankle too.
Worst mother ever.
The contents of my purse lay scattered all over the road. Luckily, my phone was still intact; the screen didn’t even have a scratch. After a fruitless attempt to call my mother—no signal—I lifted Pinky up and stood her on her kickstand, sheer defeat consuming me when I took inventory of her damage. Other than a few scratches, the bike was fine, but the chain was broken. I couldn’t even ride it back to the house.
Shading my eyes from the sun, I gazed back along the road I’d just traveled. It was all uphill. I would have to push Pinky all the way back to the house, about three or four miles, on my throbbing ankle. Defeated, I retrieved my purse from the ditch and was about to pick up my items when a truck came into view.
“Thank God,” I groaned, letting my head fall back, face to the sky. The relief was cut short as the truck neared, and I could just make out the silhouettes of two men inside. Panic rushed through me as scenes from the movie Deliverance flashed through my mind to the sound of dueling banjos.
Oh my God!
My last words to my mother hit me. What if I really do get kidnapped and chopped into a million pieces?
My twisted ankle meant I couldn’t even run. Please don’t let them be evil. I stood with my weight on my good foot, my hand resting on Pinky’s handlebar for balance as the blue Chevy truck pulled to a stop and the two men climbed out. Both were handsome in a rugged, farmer kind of way. At least I assumed they were farmers judging by their dusty jeans and weathered cotton t-shirts.
“You look like you might need some help,” the driver said, the bill of his navy ballcap frayed from age.
My cheeks heated. It was embarrassing. I’d fallen off my bike and hurt myself like I was a five-year-old. “Yeah. I had a little…accident I guess,” I laughed nervously.
He bent down and inspected Pinky, fingering the chain that hung limply. He smiled as he stood. “I’m Bailor Kepner.” He reached out his hand. As we shook, I was in awe of his smile. It drew me in, and I couldn’t help smiling too, even though I was still embarrassed and my ankle hurt like hell.
“Emalee,” I offered, not ready to give my last name just yet.
“This is my brother Cole.” He motioned to the other guy as he approached with some of the items that had fallen out of my purse. He appeared to be younger than Bailor, possibly my age.
“Nice to meet you.” Cole bobbed his head once and gave me a friendly smile. “I think these might be yours.”
My eyes slowly ascended the length of Cole’s tan arm to his face, danced over the soft curve of his mouth, and stopped when they met his eyes. Green. He had incredible green eyes.
Cole twisted his mouth and asked, “You okay?” He tilted his head. “You’re looking a little pale.”
“I’m fine. Thank you,” I managed as I tore my gaze from him and took the items he’d picked up. I quickly opened my purse and chucked them in.
“You must live close by,” Bailor guessed, looking around as if he might see my house from where he was standing.
“My grandmother was Letty Price. She left my mother the house when she passed away, and my parents and I are here for the summer.”
Bailor broke into a wide grin as he looked to Cole. “She’s Letty’s granddaughter.” Then he looked to me. “We loved Letty. She made the best damn apple pies.”
Raising my brows in surprise, I asked, “You knew my grandmother?”
“She was a good woman,” Cole answered, his expression sullen. “She did a lot for us. We were really sad when she passed away.”
“I know you don’t know us, and a girl shouldn’t get into a truck with two strangers, but I think I can fix your bike. Our farm is about three miles down the road.” Bailor motioned in the direction behind me.
“Or we could just take you straight home,” Cole offered, having noticed my hesitation.
I really should’ve had them take me home. I couldn’t wait to guilt my mother over forcing me to ride the bike. Perhaps my injury would make her rethink her no car rule. However, the Kepner brothers were the first people close to my age I’d seen since we’d arrived in Kansas, and I wagered hanging out with them would be far more exciting than being cooped up at home. The choice was pretty easy. I shifted my gaze between the two; they seemed nice enough and I wasn’t getting any rapist or murderer vibes from them. I also had mace, if need be. “Okay, fixing the bike would be nice. Thank you.”
Bailor lifted Pinky like she weighed nothing and set her in the back of the truck. Then he opened the passenger side door for me. “You ride up front. I’ll ride in the back.”
I smiled with appreciation as I hobbled over, and he waited until I was comfortably inside before closing it. Cole climbed in the driver’s seat and gave me a shy smile. I was ecstatic when he started the truck and put it in drive; I was covered in sweat and the breeze coming through the windows was heaven against my skin.
“So…” Cole began then stopped awkwardly, seemingly searching for something to say. “You’re a dancer, right?” he finally managed.
I shrugged. “I can. A little,” I admitted. “I’m actually trying to be a singer.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Letty told us you had a voice like an angel.” His voice lifted slightly, his mouth turning up. I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me or remembering my grandmother fondly.
I grinned, embarrassed. “A very generous compliment from a doting grandmother.”
“She talked about you a lot.”
“She did?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Every time I saw her.”
My gaze dropped to my hands knotted in my lap, guilt dancing through me. Nana was the best grandmother. I didn’t get to see her much growing up because of the distance between us—my father was never a fan of Kansas and Nana was a bit of a homebody—but she always made me feel special and loved.
“I thought wheat was amber,” I said, gazing out the window and needing to change the subject. “Everything is so green.”
“It will turn amber in a couple of weeks.” He peeked up at the sky through the windshield. “If this damn heat doesn’t kill it first.” The truck turned off the road onto a gravel driveway. A fog of dust floa
ted around the truck as Cole put it in park and climbed out.
I couldn’t see them, but I could hear Cole and Bailor through the window speaking to one another. That’s when I noticed a brochure on the dash board. Trying to keep myself busy as I waited for them, I grabbed it and read the front.
Caring for your loved one with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis.
I narrowed my eyes and read it again. ALS? Why would they have a brochure about ALS?
I remembered a documentary my father had been watching not long before called The Iron Horse about a major league baseball player named Lou Gehrig who’d played first base for the Yankees. He’d had a stellar career until he voluntarily retired because of a neurological disease. My father, a die-hard baseball fan, was more interested in Lou’s stats and accomplishments, but the documentary had stayed with me because of how heart breaking it had been. Lou Gehrig was an icon, and then suddenly, his strength began to decline and he couldn’t play anymore. He’d experienced rapidly increasing paralysis, and difficulty swallowing and speaking, yet mentally he was completely intact. He was only thirty-nine years old when he’d been diagnosed. At the time, there hadn’t been many cases, and the disease was so new to medicine no one really knew how quickly he would go. He’d died two years later.
Before I knew it, Bailor was opening my door. I managed to slide the pamphlet back on the dash without him noticing before climbing out and scanning our surroundings.
“We better tend to that knee,” Bailor noted. I looked down at my leg and saw it was covered in blood and dirt. The wound itself wasn’t so terrible—I’d had worse—but it was bleeding badly. Glancing back, I realized I’d gotten blood on the truck seat.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologized, embarrassed. I dug in my purse, wanting something to clean it, but I didn’t have anything.