“You’re worthless anyway, I don’t care what you do.” That’s what my old man had said to me the day I told him I was joining the Army. Granted, he was partially drunk and clearly bitter, as always. But for some reason, even though I expected that reaction, it still affected me. Those aren’t comforting words for a young man to hear, one who’s leaving everything he knows behind for a new, uncertain life. Then again, new and uncertain—a life faraway—was what I’d wanted, at first.
Until four months ago, the thought of returning hadn’t really crossed my mind. I never expected there to be a reason to come back. But having only received one other letter from Sam since my deployment, its contents earth-shattering, I knew the instant my old man’s shakily addressed envelope was in my hand that its message wouldn’t be a good one.
I knew I could handle whatever the old man had to say in a letter. But I hadn’t expected it to tell me to come home. Sam had always been my Achilles heel. She shook all certainty I had—certainty to leave my old man and drop the exhausting charade my life had become four years ago. Even now, when I know coming home is what I should do, she once again makes me question whether or not I can.
“Haven’t you left yet?” Those four words had sealed my fate, and what could have been all those years ago wasn’t enough to sway me anymore. With a promise that Sam would wait for me, that she would be mine whether I left or stayed, I chose to leave. “Good riddance,” were my old man’s last words to me, a final reminder of why I was making the right decision. It all seemed so perfect at the time.
Glancing in the rearview mirror to find no one impatiently idling behind me, I let my hands fall from the steering wheel of my truck, listening to the familiar rumble of the small-block motor, and I give myself a minute to contemplate what exactly I’m getting myself into.
I stare out at the golden hills that stretch out as far as the eye can see. The heat of the summer is heavy and thick against my skin. I eye the water bottle on the floor, air bubbles vibrating with the rumble of the engine. I reach down for the bottle, but I pause the second I spot a crumpled piece of paper sticking out from beneath the bench seat.
There are a handful of reasons I know I should leave the paper there—it’s in the past, there’s nothing for me in the past, the past is a toxic mess of unwanted memories—but I’m compelled to open it, to remind myself of the potential misery that awaits me if I go back.
Smoothing out the paper, I stare at Sam’s bubbly handwriting, losing myself to an all but forgotten memory.
“Papa says every car has to have a name,” Sam chirps. Her brown eyes shimmer like maple sugar in the sunlight as she smiles up at me. Her full, pink lips part as she waits for me to respond.
I smile at her because she’s the one good thing I have in my life. I question for the hundredth time why I’d ever consider leaving her for the next four years.
“You’ve never heard of that before?” she asks, and even though I have, I shake my head. I think it’s because I want to indulge her. I want to remember her like this, sweet and innocent and blinking up at me.
She laughs and opens my glovebox. “Well . . .” She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth as she rifles through it, finally finding a folded paper receipt and a pen to write with. After flattening the paper out on her lap, she scribes in large, black letters, I DEEM THIS MONSTER BE NAMED THE RUMBLER.
Crumpling the paper again, I toss it aside and reach for the water bottle. I unscrew the cap, suddenly dry-mouthed and in need of a distraction, so I guzzle it down until it’s gone. Despite the efforts of my brothers-in-arms to get me wasted and loosen me up a bit, I haven’t been much of a drinker over the past four years in fear of what I could become. But I know I’m going to need more than water if I’m going to get through this trip with my sanity intact.
I right myself in the driver’s seat, letting my hands settle on the steering wheel again, tightening this time as I look to my left. One conversation—one single signature—is all it would take, and I’d be back on the list again, waiting to be shipped out, braced for a life that would be easier, compared to other things.
I look down the road, to the right. Five and a half miles that way is Saratoga Falls—the place where I smoked my first cigarette up in the oak tree behind the middle school gym with Nick, where I bought my Chevy for my senior project and rebuilt it at Nick’s house with his dad. Saratoga Falls is the town where I won baseball championships and where I woke up on some random person’s lawn with my first screaming hangover and my hand in a pile of dog shit.
I glance into the rearview mirror to find myself grinning. Then it falters. For the first time in a while, I actually see the two scars on my face—one a sharp, inch-long line on my jaw, remnants of a bar fight on base where a broken beer bottle collided with my face all in the name of helping a brother out, and the other a small, faded white gash above my eyebrow that the old man’s fist had left behind on one of his “bad” days—both scars a different part of me. I shake my head.
No, Saratoga Falls was never all laughs and adventures, not when your father was the town drunk, a worthless bastard who’d done little for me, his one and only kid, other than give me a roof over my head and money for clothes once in a while. So why I’m going back for him, I’m not quite sure.
Deciding to come home had been a vicious cycle of shoulds and don’t want tos, but despite my desire to take the easy road and deploy back to Turkey or Japan or some arid, desolate place in the Middle East, I knew I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t go home one last time. Guilt and Dad’s letter have gotten me this far, and I’ve never been one to change my mind mid-motion.
So I gas the accelerator and go right. The feel of the Rumbler beneath me, the virile and sheer horsepower that rallies its roar to life, is one of the few things I’ve missed. It’s slightly comforting. Not only does it sound like the growl of a Carrier or Cougar that I’ve been confined in for most of the last four years, but it reminds me of Cal Carmichael and the first time I drove the yet-to-be-named Rumbler out of his shop—a hunk of metal that had been towed in and abandoned. After months of frustration and excitement, blood, sweat, and maybe a few proud tears, it was perfect—red, roaring, and the first thing I ever owned that was all mine.
Leaving the windows down, I let the hot, dry air blast my skin as I accelerate onto the highway. When the Saratoga Falls sign comes into view, I think about the house. The old man’s note was clear. I’m to sell it and keep the money, but if the house is in the condition I’d left it in, that wouldn’t be an easy task, twelve acres of land or not. I would do it, though. I’d come this far, already put my reenlistment plans on hold as it is.
Guilt has a funny way of making people do things out of obligation, it seems. I hadn’t checked on my dad except for when I was home on leave for one short week, and the guilt that I hadn’t even known he was ailing so much was enough to sway me here to follow through with his final wishes.
I scrub the side of my face and rest my elbow on the window frame. I feel like a heartless son of a bitch for having an emptiness inside my chest when I’m sure I should be feeling more sadness. I tell myself that I’m carrying out his one request, which is more than he deserves.
My phone vibrates on the seat beside me. I reach for it. One missed call from Nick. Playing the message, I hold the phone to my ear and struggle to hear his voice above the Chevy and the wind.
“Hey, dude, it’s me. Where you at? I haven’t taken the truck out at all this month, hopefully she’s still running when you finally get here. Anyway, I actually have a day off today. I’m meeting Sam and Mac for lunch, then headed to Lick’s to grab a brew and meet up with someone. Call me.”
I disconnect from voicemail and stare down the road, at the hills that begin to give way to trees and tall buildings.
Sam. The single person I’ve never wanted to be closer to and farther away from in all my life. Nerves I haven’t felt since my first day in boot camp stir in my stomach. No matter how much I’ve
been able to put the past behind me, I know face-to-face will be a different story, one I’m not anxious to play out anytime soon.
Bracing myself as much as I can for the weeks to come, I take the Saratoga Falls exit. I lean forward and turn on the radio. Music helps distract me, usually. The electric guitar and gravelly vocals make me feel a little better.
It’s time to say goodbye and close this chapter of my life . . . for good.
Four
Sam
Relieved to be away from the ranch for a while and blaring the sappy lyrics of a banjo-strumming, twangy-singing country duo, I head down the mountain for an overdue Friday afternoon lunch date with Mac and Nick. While I like keeping busy, the past few days have felt like a mind-numbing loop of saddling one horse only to unsaddle it and ride the next, and I’m exhausted and starting to feel a little sick about it.
Nick and I have gotten a lot of other tasks accomplished, too, like mending the chicken coop, mucking out all the stalls, fixing the waterline to the troughs, and everything else that popped up in between, and today is a much-needed day off. So, promising Alison I’d run a slew of errands for her while I’m out, I head into the heart of town.
Turning the truck into Fairview Plaza, I park in an open spot in front of the Beach Club Tanning Salon, a few storefronts down from the Market, the best sandwich joint in Saratoga Falls. With Mac busy working in her dad’s auto shop and Nick always working with me or at Lick’s, the three of us don’t get together as much as we used to, and today of all days, I need a little distraction. A picnic in the park across from the auto shop is just the remedy.
Killing the engine, I climb out of the truck. Though it isn’t lifted per se, it’s tall for me and my not-so-long legs. With a slam of the door, I shove my cell phone and keys into my jeans pocket, fluff my oversized tank top that is wrinkled from driving, and head toward the deli. The sound of my flip-flops resounds off the storefront windows as I walk by, something I’m not used to given the normal clomp of my boots.
“—just do it, Jesse. No arguing.” A disgruntled female voice reaches my ears, and my heart skips a beat. Instinctively, I tense, walking by Bethany, my least favorite member of our graduating class. Her dress is too short, her skin glowing orange in the early afternoon sun.
Bethany barely spares me a glance at first, her phone conversation is too concerning, but when her gaze does find mine, it thins. She quickly assesses me from head to toe as she continues toward the salon. “I said no,” she says, practically growling into the phone at poor Jesse Someone on the other end.
I finger the soft fringe at the end of my braid, trying but failing miserably not to think about her with Mike, of their frequent rendezvous. I don’t want to think about how many times she’d been with him while we were together. I quickly glance in her direction one last time and wonder what the hell Nick sees in her, how she could possibly captivate him the way she does.
I shake away the gnawing disgust Bethany’s presence always sparks and continue into the deli. After I order three sandwiches, each crafted exactly as we like them and sparing no expense, I grab a couple bags of chips, a fruit bowl, and a special treat for Nick and pay Schmitty before I head back to the truck.
Traffic’s crap as I drive through town, something I should’ve expected around lunchtime on a Friday. Our town is small, making downtown the place to be for anyone doing anything on a nice afternoon like today. Me, I’m just trying to get through the throng of people crossing the street, the cars blocking traffic, waiting for parking spots outside the old brick restaurants and businesses that line the manicured and landscaped streets. I recognize a few people I know scattered about and wave to them when they spot me, trying not to let my impatience show.
Finally, after hitting what seems like every single stoplight in town, I pull up to the curb across the street from Cal’s Auto. I honk a few times as I shut off the engine, alerting Mac that I’ve arrived, then I grab our bagged lunch and head for our shady spot beneath the only willow tree in the park, glad to see it’s not already taken. Unlike the ranch, the grass is green and soft here, making a nice picnic spot for the lunch dates we get to sneak in every once in a while.
I set the sandwich bag on the ground and start to lay the old flannel blanket I keep stashed in the cab of my truck out on the grass.
“We had an agreement, Mr. Vasquez,” I hear Mac scold from inside the shop. The entrance door is open, probably because it’s such a nice day, or maybe because the smell of brake cleaner is too strong otherwise. I’m not sure how she deals with it every day, but then, when you grow up with a dad and two brothers covered in car fluids, I guess it’s something a girl can get used to, just like I’m used to the smell of manure and fly spray.
But Mac is special, and I have a profound respect for her. Every day, while Mr. Carmichael and his crew—which consists of one of her brothers, Bobby, and a couple other guys from around town—wrench, Mac runs the front desk, helps bleed brakes when needed, and makes sure Mr. Carmichael has dinner at a reasonable time before he passes out in his recliner, generally until dawn the next morning. She somehow fits in community college courses, jogging five miles a day, and always looking like a million bucks, no matter what she’s doing. She keeps up with everything and still has her shit together, still seems normal.
“You’re paying, Mr. Vasquez,” she continues. I can see her as she walks by the door. “You’re paying or I’m having your car towed. The impound payment will be double what you owe us. You decide.” Mac sets the cordless phone in its cradle at the counter and waves at me before she heads over.
I plop down and open the container of fruit, contentedly waiting for Mac and Nick to join me. I pop a piece of pineapple into my mouth just as Nick’s Explorer turns the corner a couple blocks away. I can hear his rock ’n’ roll blaring as he drives up the street and see him drumming on the steering wheel as he comes to a stop.
“Sup, girl!” he calls out his window to Mac as she stops at the curb ready to cross. But just as she’s about to wave at Nick, Bobby calls her back into the shop.
Mac gives me a “be right back” look before she hurries back inside. “You ever heard of a lunch break, people?” she grinds out as Nick shuts the engine off, and Mac disappears back inside.
Nick gives me a nod in greeting and steps out of the Explorer. He looks like a completely different person when he’s not covered in dirt and dust. His wranglers, boots, and cowboy hat are replaced with a pair of cargo shorts, a pullover polo, and a pair of flip-flops.
“Hey, stranger,” I say as he trudges up the incline toward our little picnic. “You clean up pretty damn good, Mr. Turner,” I say. “I like the preppy look. I still want to see you on a horse, though.”
“I’ll do blisters and horse shit and manual labor, hell, I’ll wash the damn beasts for you, but you will never see me on a horse,” Nick vows. “Ever.” In true Nick fashion, he hits his chest and outstretches his arms, a wide and contagious smile filling his face. “Never!” His arms fall to his sides, and he plops down beside me. “So you might as well give up.”
As soon as he finds the jar of dill pickles I bought for him, he snatches them up, excitement lighting his eyes. “You’re so good to me,” he says in a lusty daze as he strains—but only momentarily—to open the jar.
“I know,” I say and sigh. “Don’t forget it.”
“Never, ever.” He licks his lips as he unscrews the lid. “Come to Daddy,” he murmurs.
“Should I leave you and your pickles alone?” I ask. Legs crossed, I lean back and lift my face up to what few rays of sun penetrate the willow’s cover and close my eyes. I can feel goose bumps rise on my thighs as a slight breeze picks up. It feels good in the dry heat.
The smell in the park is different from the scent carried on the breeze at home on the ranch. Here, I smell roses and freshly cut grass, and I hear kids playing in the sandbox a couple dozen yards behind us. The rustling of the willow’s covering sounds soft and magical compared to the cr
ackle of oak leaves back home.
“You think I could live on pickles?” Nick asks as he crunches one between his teeth. He recaps the pickle jar before setting it aside to dig through the rest of the goodies I brought.
I smack his hand away from the bag. “Wait for Mac, would ya?”
“Geez, no violence necessary.” Trying not to laugh, he leans back on his elbows. “What’s your plan for the rest of the day?”
I look down at my cutoffs, picking a piece of thread from my neon pink tank top. I shrug. “Stopping by the grocery store so I can cook you dinner tomorrow, going to the pharmacy, getting gas, then heading home. You know, nothing crazy.” I plan to visit Papa’s grave, too, but that doesn’t seem like a necessary topic to bring up.
“You should come to Lick’s tonight. You can have a drink and let your hair down a little. And you can meet Savannah.” Nick’s dark eyebrows danced.
“And cock-block you? I wouldn’t want to rain on your parade.”
I don’t like the way he studies me—the sandstone-colored flecks in his green eyes are illuminated by the sunlight, and the moment his eyes narrow, I know he’s intent on discovering the truth. I clear my throat. Apparently, omitting the blip about Papa was pointless. Nick’s worried about me going home today, regardless of what I don’t say.
I pretend not to notice. “Savannah meeting me is almost like meeting the parents. Trust me, you don’t want me to meet her until you know she’s the real deal.”
“Hey, fellas!” Mac calls as she jogs primly across the street, her heels clacking against the pavement. Her dark brown hair is long, loose, and wavy today, which means she didn’t have much time to get ready this morning, though to the untrained eye a person would never know it.
“I’m so happy to see you,” she says, staring down at the bag of professionally wrapped sandwiches. She bats her eyelashes. “You have no idea how starving I am.”
I sit up, shaking my head. When Mac looks at me with glittering green eyes, she winks. “Thanks, Sam.” She settles on the blanket across from Nick and me, her legs folded under her so she’s not exposing herself to the world as she sits awkwardly in her skirt. Mac offers us each an air kiss as she picks a purple grape out of the fruit bowl. “Aw, you waited for me.” She beams her ridiculously gorgeous smile. “As much as I love the guys,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder toward the shop, “chivalry is lost on them. They didn’t even leave me any coffee this morning.”
Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1) Page 4