by Claire Adams
Her mouth was open like she was going to say something, but no words were coming out. Her brow furrowed, and a line appeared across her forehead. She blinked.
“A while?” she finally said. “You were wanting to break up with me for ‘a while’?”
“Maybe not a while. Not months and months, or anything. But—”
“Before or after we slept together?”
“What?”
“When we slept together—were you thinking of breaking up with me then?”
“I… I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
She shook her head. “God, I’m an idiot,” she said. “I’d been feeling like shit about the divorce, and then I heard you were back around, and after the barbecue that night I thought it was really a sign that I was doing the right thing, and that maybe you and I would pick up where we left off. Because we were meant to be. I actually thought that when I got home from the barbecue that night. But I’m an idiot. I really am, aren’t I? And not just because of the other night, either. All those times I came down to the prison, hoping you’d come out and see me. Writing you all those letters you never responded to. You should have come out to see me, you know. Because I actually had something to tell you, too. Did you even read the letters I sent?”
I looked down at my boots. “No.” A few people had written while I’d been in, and I hadn’t read or responded to any of them. How could I explain it? I couldn’t, other than I was ashamed about what had happened, and any contact with the outside world just seemed to serve a reminder of what a shitty person I was. Because not only had I killed someone, I had also caused all these other people considerable pain.
Carolyn folded her arms across her chest and sniffed. “I didn’t think so,” she said. “Because if you had, I figured you would’ve at least said something when I saw you the first time.”
“Said something about what?”
“If you’d read the letters, you’d know. Or if you’d come out to see me, even just once, you would’ve known. But you didn’t. So, maybe we should just keep it that way. It’d probably be better.”
Her face was twisted in anger, red splotches rising on her cheeks. There were tears in her eyes.
“Carolyn,” I said. “Please. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to do the right thing. I’m not trying to hurt you, and I realize now that I should have—”
“I was pregnant!” she screamed. “I was pregnant and I didn’t know what to do and you were in prison and wouldn’t give me the time of day!”
“You were?” I asked dumbly. “Wait, but—”
“You didn’t have a condom, remember? No, you probably don’t remember.”
“Of course I remember.”
“Then you’d recall that you didn’t wear a condom, and I wasn’t on the pill or anything.”
“I pulled out, though, I didn’t—”
“Were you not paying attention in health class, Oliver? Don’t be stupid. Do you think I’m lying to you?”
“No, of course not.”
“I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t tell anyone. All I wanted was to be able to talk to you about it, and you wouldn’t even acknowledge me. So, I got an abortion.”
“I’m so sorry, Carolyn.”
And I was. I’d had no idea about any of that, and I hated the idea of her having to deal with that all by herself. But even if I had met with her when she’d come to see me, or if I’d read one of the letters, she’d still have had to deal with it on her own.
“I wanted to talk to you about it. I wanted to know what you wanted to do,” she said. “Of course, at the time, I was thinking we were still together. I thought you still loved me.” She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Would you like to know why I’m getting divorced? Because I can’t have children. Because Jeff wants a family, and I can’t give it to him.”
“I didn’t think you were supposed to divorce someone just because you couldn’t have kids together.” I realized what a foolish thing this was to say only after the words had left my mouth, and a look of enraged disbelief settled on her face.
“What the hell would you know about it?” she asked coldly. “You, who doesn’t even have the decency to respond to your girlfriend after you go to prison. And no, it’s not, but our marriage couldn’t withstand the fucking years of IVF treatments and heartache that I’ve had to endure. I can’t bear waking up each morning next to someone who thinks that I’m a failure.”
“You’re not a failure, Carolyn. And since… since you already got pregnant once, couldn’t that mean the issue is with him?” I knew I should really just keep my mouth shut, that I should stand there and take whatever it was that she wanted to dish out, because I truly did deserve it. But I also hated that look of pain on her face. I hated that it was me who had caused it.
“Oh, that’s exactly it!” she exclaimed, clapping her palm to her forehead. “Why didn’t I think of it? Why didn’t any of the fertility specialists, who we gave tens of thousands of our dollars to, realize this? That’s completely amazing that after a five-minute conversation you’ve been able to figure out exactly what the problem is.” She shook her head. “You’re such an asshole, Ollie, do you know that? You’re such a fucking asshole. Why am I here taking this fucking walk with you right now, anyway?”
I looked back down at the ground again.
But she wouldn’t relent. “Really, Ollie, why are we out here? Why did you call me and have me meet you here and take me for a walk? Why?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I raised my head and met her gaze. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. That I was sorry.”
“You could’ve just done that over the phone. Or sent a postcard. Or a singing fucking telegram. But the real reason you’re out here is for you. You don’t give a shit how I feel about it—you’re out here because you feel guilty, and you’re trying to somehow mitigate it. Well, guess what? I don’t accept your fucking apology. You don’t get to get off that easily. You broke my fucking heart, and you didn’t even have the decency to do it to my face. And now, all these years later, you’re just trying to make amends to make YOU feel better.” She snarled these last words, and I had the feeling if I’d said anything else, she probably would’ve clawed my eyes out. She turned on her heel and stormed off, leaving me standing there, wondering if she was right, if the real reason I was doing this was just to make myself feel better.
Chapter Eleven
Wren
“Now, I am a total beginner,” I said to Ollie. “Probably more so than most. I mean, I know that’s the front end and that’s the rear end, but that’s about it. Oh, and to hold your palm flat when you feed them, but I learned that the hard way.” I’d been seven years old, and we’d gone to the county fair, and I made the mistake of holding a slice of apple with my two fingers and trying to feed it to a Shetland pony that I thought was adorable until he chomped down on my fingers along with the apple.
“Well, I’d say you’re off to a pretty good start, at least,” Ollie said. He gave the horse, Sweetpea, a pat on the neck. I’d watched as he tacked her up, putting on a woven blanket on her first, then the heavy saddle, which he easily hoisted up as though it were nothing. He told me the part that secured the saddle to her back was called a cinch, though in English riding it was called a girth.
“So, this isn’t English riding?” I’d asked.
“Nah,” he said. “If it were, the saddle would be a lot smaller, this horn wouldn’t be here—” he patted the front of the saddle where there something that looked to me like a handle or grip of sorts, “—and when you held the reins, you’d be using two hands, not one. I’ve only ridden English a few times, and I personally think it’s easier to learn to ride western. More comfortable, that’s for sure.”
He did have a helmet for me to wear, though. I’d been expecting to don a cowboy hat, maybe a pair of fringed chaps, but the only thing he made sure was that I was wearing boots with a heel and that I had the helmet secured on correctly.
&n
bsp; “Now, I don’t expect Sweetpea to spook at anything,” he said. “But for at least the first couple rides, I recommend that everyone wear a helmet.”
“That’s fine,” I said, knowing I probably looked like a fool in this one, but did that really matter? I was about to get on a horse for the first time, and then I’d really be looking foolish.
“So, this here’s the stirrup.” He touched one of the bell-shaped wooden things attached to a leather strap, connected to the saddle. “You always mount and dismount a horse from the left-hand side. Sweetpea could care less which side you did, but some horses get freaked out if you try from the right.”
“I’ll try to remember that. How come the left? I’d think it’d be the right.”
“It’s tradition, really. Back in the day, when people rode horses into battle, they’d wear their swords on their left, so they had to get on from that side.”
“Huh,” I said. “Interesting.”
“You’ll stand sideways against Sweetpea like this, put your foot in the stirrup, and then swing yourself up and bring your other leg over her side.”
“Um, sure.” I copied how he’d just been standing, grabbing the horn of the saddle, sliding my left foot into the stirrup.
“You can hop once or twice to get momentum,” he said.
I took two little hops and then tried to jettison myself up into the saddle. I didn’t have nearly enough oomph, though, and for one humiliating second I thought I was going to land right back on the ground in an undignified heap, possibly spraining my ankle in the process. But then I felt Ollie’s hand, right on my lower back—actually, an inch or two lower and it would’ve been my ass—pushing me up, then steadying me, and finally I was seated there in the saddle.
For all the jostling that had just happened, Sweetpea stood there perfectly still. I wondered if she’d fallen asleep.
“Good.” Ollie patted my knee. “Now, get right foot into that stirrup, and remember to keep your heels down.” He handed me the reins. “When you ride western, you hold both reins in your right hand. So, when you want the horse to turn, you press the reins to the side of her neck. If you wanted her to go right, for example, you’d move your hand to the right, so the left rein is pressing against the side of her neck, like this.” His hand covered mine, and he pushed it gently to the side, the rein pressing against the side of Sweetpea’s neck. She swiveled her head to the right and started to swing her rear around, taking a few steps.
“To get her to stop, just pull back. You don’t have to do it too hard, especially with her.” He made a clucking noise with his tongue. “Now, why don’t you just let her walk. You can cluck at her, or gently squeeze her sides with your legs. She’s got a real smooth gait, so all you really need to do is sit back and get used to the feel.”
Sweetpea seemed to have a better idea about all of this than I did. I’d exerted only the tiniest bit of pressure on her sides, and she was already moving out toward the fence. And maybe her gait was smooth as melted chocolate, I didn’t know, but as she took that first step, I lurched forward and grabbed the horn, the front of the saddle, her neck, anything my hands could find. I could only imagine what a trainwreck I must’ve looked like, but Ollie wasn’t laughing at me. Not out loud, at least.
It was such a strange sensation, to be atop this animal that was just ambling along. It was different than driving a car or riding a bike, because you were in control. The car or bike did not have a mind of its own. The car or bike was not going to decide to, say, take off at breakneck speed and not slow down until it felt like it. Sweetpea did not seem as though she’d be up for anything even remotely close to that, but still, I was overcome with the urge to be safely back on the ground.
Stop it, I chided. Don’t be afraid of doing this. Children do this.
“Just try to relax,” Ollie called, as Sweetpea walked a slow circle around the corral. “Sit up a little straighter, if you can, drop your hands a bit. Yeah, like that. Good.”
I’d been hunched over, as if that might offer me some more stability. When I straightened up, though, it felt as though I was sitting deeper in the saddle, my legs more firmly around Sweetpea’s sides. I tried to relax and let my body move with her movements.
“You can grab her mane, too,” he said.
“I can? I’d be afraid to—I don’t want to pull it too hard.”
“You can yank on it as much as you want, and she won’t feel a thing—horses don’t have nerve-endings in their manes.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.” I reached down and grabbed a handful of mane and gave it a little tug. Sweetpea didn’t react at all. I tugged a little harder, and still, no response. “Wow,” I said. “That’s really interesting.” I thought back to my childhood, when my own hair had been waist-length, and the crying and screaming that would often end an otherwise perfectly fine day when my mother insisted that we comb the knots out of my hair. No nerve endings certainly would’ve been useful then.
I think I got a little used to it, as we walked circles around the corral. I could only imagine how riveting this was for Ollie, but he didn’t look bored, and every so often he’d call out with a suggestion, or, once or twice, a bit of praise. I was good, it seemed, at remembering to keep my heels down.
I wasn’t sure how many circles Sweetpea and I walked, but my ass and the inside of my thighs started to feel chafed. Ollie had me stop her, and then I was able to dismount, remembering to do so from the left side. My legs felt wobbly.
“Not bad, Wren,” he said.
“Thanks. Certainly not cowgirl caliber, but I’m working on it. Show me what you can do.”
He almost looked embarrassed. “Maybe another time,” he said.
“Please?”
I thought he was going to refuse, but then he nodded and took the reins. He easily swung up into the saddle in one graceful, fluid motion. He clucked at Sweetpea, and she immediately perked up and started walking at a brisk pace, ears pricked forward. She started to jog, then lope, all the while he sat easily in the saddle, like this whole thing was second nature. She sped up a little, then slid to a sudden stop, practically sitting down. Then she turned in a circle, keeping her rear legs in place and moving only her front. He made it look so easy.
He rode her back over to the fence. “Sweetpea here used to compete in reining events,” he said. “She’s still got it in her.” He patted her neck, and she bobbed her head.
“That was great!” I said. “Makes me wish I could do something like that.”
“You can,” Ollie said as he hopped down from the saddle. “Just takes practice.”
“I don’t know. I felt pretty uncoordinated up there. You looked so… It just looked so natural for you.”
“Well, I’ve been doing it a long time. It’s like cooking for you, I bet. It’s something you’ve done for a while, and you’re accustomed to it. You should see me in the kitchen—it’s a complete disaster.”
“Maybe I should give you some cooking lessons some time,” I said. “Cooking has actually been very therapeutic for me. Sort of like meditating, except not nearly as boring. I tried meditating before, and I didn’t have much luck with it at all.”
“You know, I wouldn’t mind learning a thing or two in the kitchen. I might have to take you up on that.”
“I’d be more than happy to show you. You can’t be any worse in the kitchen than I just was right now on a horse.”
“You really weren’t that bad.”
He smiled at me. God, he was handsome. And before I could stop the words coming from my mouth, I was asking him if he wanted to go down to the swimming hole a few miles away, right before you got into town. I was thinking we could do that and maybe get a bite to eat at the restaurant on the way back.
“It’s hot enough today to go for a swim,” he said. “I haven’t been swimming in a while.”
“Well, let’s do it then.”
“I should probably be back by four or so. Got evening chores to do, and then Garrett told me h
e wanted me to go up to the house tonight, have a talk.”
I nodded. “Hmm. Sounds serious,” I said, mostly joking. “I’ll make sure you get back on time.”
Chapter Twelve
Ollie
It had been a hell of a long time since I’d last been swimming. Not that I hadn’t thought about it, though, especially on those hot days, trapped inside Reynolds, the air thick and pungent with the smell of body odor and piss and spoiled milk. What I wouldn’t have given for the chance to come out to one of these swimming holes where you could stand on a boulder and jump into the cold water, so clear you could see the fish swimming twenty feet below.
We drove over in Wren’s Jeep Wrangler, which didn’t have the roof or the doors on. It was a bit unnerving to be sitting there as she sped down the road and to see the asphalt zooming by.
“I don’t know about that,” I said, edging my right leg over to the left a little more.
Wren was sitting slightly slouched, one hand casually placed on the steering wheel, looking a hell of a lot more at home behind the wheel of the Jeep than she just did up on Sweetpea.
“You don’t like it?” she asked.
I tried to keep my eyes on the road in front of us, as it seemed somehow better when looking through the windshield.
“It’s just kind of weird, I guess. A little freaky, going this fast with the road right there.”
“It’s no different than driving around in your truck.”
“I know, it’s just my truck has a door, so I don’t feel like I’m about to fall out.”
She smiled. “You’re not the first person to say that, but I think that’s pretty interesting, considering I’m sure you probably wouldn’t think twice about going this fast on a horse, and that’s a whole lot scarier, and there’s no seatbelt, and I, for one, would sure as hell fall off.” Her smile widened. “Or are you saying my driving scares you?”
I laughed. “No. Not yet, anyway.”