by D. R. Graham
I walk backwards and point at her. “Be prepared to go another round when I get back.”
She smiles and hugs her arms around her body. “Looking forward to it.”
As I drive away, the high of being with her is replaced with worry.
The nurse at the reception desk sends me to a room at the end of the hall. Dad is awake and the head of the bed is raised so he’s resting in a semi-seated position. His forehead is bandaged and his arm is in a full cast from his knuckles to above his elbow. Crystal and our head ranch hand named Luke are standing by the window. Dad shakes his head when he sees me and shoots a glare at Phil, who’s seated in the corner. “What are you calling everybody for, jackass? He can’t afford to miss more school. And I’m fine in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“He’s your son. All I did was tell him what happened. He’s the one who decided to drive all the way out here and check on your sorry ass.” Phil looks at me apologetically. “Unfortunately, the bump to the head didn’t improve his disposition at all.”
Dad isn’t the hugging type so I just slap his shoulder lightly. “What happened?”
“Don’t remember. Zorro must have spooked.”
I look over at everyone else in the room to check if Dad’s downplaying something that he doesn’t want me to know about. Phil’s expression twitches subtly as if there is more to the story than that, but he’s not going to be the one to tell me. “What did the doctor say?”
Dad’s eyes roll slightly as he shifts in the bed to delay answering. “Broken arm. I’m fine.”
“Except that you fell off your horse for some unknown reason and knocked yourself unconscious.”
He reaches over to grab a glass of water and sips from the straw.
A doctor enters the room and apologizes for interrupting the conversation before she flashes a penlight in Dad’s eyes. “All right, Mr. Lewis. Looks like you’re good to go home now. But no horseback riding for three weeks. And no TV either. I don’t want your brain to work too hard.”
Phil laughs. “His brain never did work all that hard, Doc.”
She smiles as Dad chucks the straw at Phil, then she hands him a list of concussion tips. I’ve had my share of concussions from bronc riding, so I’m familiar with the protocol, but I tell her I have a few questions and escort her into the hall so we can talk in private.
“Why do you think he fell?”
She shrugs and writes something on a chart. “His cardiac and neurological tests all came back normal. His blood work is fine. Most likely the horse acted up and threw him.”
I nod, not convinced. Zorro doesn’t even flinch at most things, and he stood by Dad. If he had spooked he would have taken off, not stayed there.
“Monitor him for the concussion symptoms. The elbow fracture will probably take six to eight weeks to heal. I don’t think there is anything else to worry about.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
When I step back into the room, Dad is already dressed and struggling to button his shirt with one hand. “Let’s go,” he says. “The animals aren’t going to feed themselves.”
“Luke can go back and take care of everything.” I nod at Luke and he takes that as his cue to leave. “You’re supposed to take it easy,” I remind Dad
“I am. I’m going to let you drive.”
I shake my head and let Crystal and Phil walk ahead of me as they follow him out. I’m glad he’s feeling well enough to be a pain in the ass. But he knows as well as I do that he didn’t fall off that horse for no reason.
Chapter 17
Della
Easton called. His dad has been released from the hospital, and they’re back at the ranch now, but Easton is still worried about how he fell in the first place. He’s going to stay for a few days to make sure everything’s okay. I’m going to miss him, but it’s probably not a bad idea to spend time apart. The healthiest relationships are ones where each person has at least a few separate interests, or so I’ve heard. And since I already want to spend every second of the day and night with him, it’s probably better to set the tone of independence now so I don’t turn into a suffocating psycho girlfriend.
BJ is making pancakes for us and Chuck is sitting on a lawn chair in the backyard, staring at the reflection of the sun in the pool. He never did move his things out of his room, but we hadn’t seen him all week, so I thought he was in the process of finding somewhere else to live. Apparently not, since he’s here now. And if the six empty beer cans scattered around the base of the lawn chair are any indication, he’s obviously been out there for a while.
BJ glances at Chuck through the glass patio door and then checks my expression as he slides a plate of blueberry pancakes across the counter for me. “Do you want me to ask him to leave? Or should I invite him in?”
I shovel a forkful of pancake into my mouth to give myself time to think about it as I chew. I don’t know what to do. Just because he looks completely dejected and pathetic doesn’t mean he’s going to change. Generating pity is probably his goal. He wants me to feel sorry for him. He knows my heart will bleed for him. He might even know that Easton is out of town and it’s the perfect time for him to weasel his way back in by playing on my sympathies. Or, maybe he hit rock bottom and really needs a friend. Come on, Della, he’s not a puppy. He’s a grown man who can take care of himself. And, he’s a jerk who took what he had for granted. He needs to feel the loss so he learns how he should treat people. Oh dear, he just leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and cradle his head in his hands. He needs a hug. Poor thing. No. Stop it. Be strong. He made his bed, he needs to lie in it. Even if he technically doesn’t have a bed at all and possibly needs to sleep on the street.
Stop caring about his feelings. He doesn’t care about anyone else’s feelings. But maybe deep down he does? Maybe that’s why he developed such an abrasive outer shell? Maybe he’s super sensitive and he needed to protect himself from the cruel world by lashing out first? He’s mean, though, remember? We can at least let him in to pack up his things. And his rent is paid until the end of the month, so if he hasn’t got anywhere to go, he could technically stay until he gets it sorted. But it might just cause more problems. What should I do? My breakfast is completely consumed and I still haven’t answered BJ’s question.
“Let me talk to him first,” I finally say.
BJ nods and serves up another helping of pancakes.
“How did you do on your assignment?” I ask to take my mind off Chuck’s suffering.
“Barely scraped by. I have a mid-term this Friday that’s going to decide my fate.”
“Do you feel prepared?”
He shrugs and dribbles syrup over the stack on his plate. “I’ve been studying, but there’s one unit I still don’t get.”
“Is Easton in that class? Maybe he could explain it to you.”
“No, he doesn’t take this course. Chuck took it last year. He’s too depressed to tutor me, though.”
I glance over my shoulder at Chuck. He’s still hunched and holding his head in a vice grip. “Is that pathetic thing all just an act so I’ll forgive him and invite him back?”
“No, it’s not an act. He’s legitimately messed up over Janine dating that surfer dude. Chuck’s been following her around campus and sitting in his truck outside her apartment building every night. She finally called me to say that if he doesn’t stop stalking her she’s going to call the cops.”
Yikes, stalking is bad. Illegal, possibly crazy, and humiliating. Someone needs to do something. Save him from himself. Or not. He’s in charge of his own choices. If he makes a decision that gets him thrown in jail that’s his problem. But then again, if I went crazy over Easton breaking up with me to date someone else, I would hope that one of my friends would step in and stop my jealous acts of desperation before I violated any laws. Do unto others as you would wish them to do unto you. “So, if he’s this broken up over her does it mean he actually liked her?”
BJ nods.
“I
would have never guessed that. He’s obviously more complex than I thought.” I stand and make a plate of pancakes for Chuck. “Okay. I’m going out there. Wish me luck.”
BJ’s face locks into a grimace as if he’s not sure it’s a good idea but can’t think of a better plan. “I’ll stay right here in case you need me.”
I give him a thumbs up to show my gratitude, then after a breath, I head outside and approach Chuck cautiously. “Hey, Taylor. Bailey made breakfast if you’re hungry.” I extend my arm to offer him the plate, but he doesn’t move or even acknowledge my presence. Undeterred, I place the dish on the patio table and pull a chair around to sit next to him. The muscles in his arms and up the side of his neck are so tense it looks as if he’s literally straining against something. I have a million things to say, but it feels like the best thing to do is to just sit with him in silence. He’s torturing himself. I can feel the self-loathing anger emanating off him. BJ is still seated at the kitchen island, reading from his textbook, so I lean back in the chair and angle my face up to the sun to wait. No idea what I’m waiting for. What was I thinking? Even if he does talk to me, I don’t know how to fix his problems with Janine. He was right when he said I was too inexperienced to give advice on dating. Maybe if I just be a friend to him my kindness will rub off on him. Maybe he’ll start to appreciate the people he cares about and actually show them how important they are to him. If not, oh well, at least I can say I did the right thing and tried my best to be a good person. That’s all that matters anyway, right? No, it shouldn’t be all about me. It’s about him. And he doesn’t feel like talking. Gah. How does anyone solve anything if they don’t talk about it? Stop over-thinking everything, Della. Just be. Silence is golden. It feels like at least half an hour has passed. Maybe it’s only been ten minutes. Either way, it’s got to be a record for me to remain silent for this long. Yulia would be so proud of me right now.
When I was fourteen, Yulia took me to a yoga class with her—once. She was so embarrassed because even though she shushed me repeatedly, I kept forgetting that it’s supposed to be a silent practice and I blurted out about a thousand questions. If it wasn’t for the non-talking part I’d probably really like yoga. Needless to say she never invited me again. Probably best for everyone involved.
Hmm. Chuck’s muscles just relaxed. He doesn’t look like he’s bracing to fight the world anymore. And the anger is gone. Replaced with sadness. Heartbreaking sadness. My eyes begin to water from the intensity of the vulnerability I can feel radiating off him. I knew it. He has a sweet side down there somewhere. Slowly, so as not to startle him, I reach over and slide my arm across his shoulders. He takes a deep breath to hold back his emotions but lets me hug him.
“I screwed everything up with Janine,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady.
I nod because it’s true. But everyone makes mistakes. And regretting it means he cares on some level. I don’t know if he deserves a second chance with Janine. At least he still has an opportunity to learn from his mistakes, and become a better person, and be more respectful to the next girl he meets. There’s still hope, I hope. “It’s going to be okay,” I finally say.
He huffs as if he’s not sure that’s true. But he wants it to be true. I can tell.
Not wanting to push my luck with too much sympathy, I let my arm drop away from his shoulders. There’s nothing more I can say or do at this point. What happens next is up to him. That was probably enough Chuckie time for one day anyway, so I bend over to pick up three of the empty beer cans.
Before I turn to leave he says, “Thanks, Della.”
I stop and make eye contact with him. His expression is genuine, and obviously I’m too much of a Pollyanna, but I can’t kick someone when they’re down. “Eat something. And you need a shower. If you help BJ study for his exam I’ll talk to Janine for you and see if there is any way for you to get her back. No promises on my end because if she wants nothing to do with you, that’s her choice. But I’ll try. Deal?”
He nods.
As I head towards the house he says, “I’m sorry about how I treated you, too.”
“Prove it. By changing,” I say, leaving the sliding door open behind me so he knows he’s welcome back in the house. For now.
BJ looks up from his reading. “How’d it go?”
“He’s going to help you pass your exam. And I’m going to see if there’s any way to help him win Janine back. My odds are not that good, so make sure you pump him for as much information as you can before he finds out that he’s burned his bridges with Janine.”
“Nice negotiation skills. Thanks for making me the beneficiary.”
“It’s for your mom and your sisters, too. If you graduate everyone benefits.”
He stands and walks around the counter to hug me into his side “You’re such a good girl.”
I smile and squirm away from him as he tousles my hair. There was a time when I would have been insulted by being called a good girl, like it was a bad thing—goody-two-shoes, suck up, hall-monitor, or prude. But now I’m proud of who I am. I mean, I’m not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but there’s nothing wrong with being who I am. Plus, for the record, I’m technically not a prude anymore. I scored with the hottest guy on campus. Can I get a woot woot? Next thing I know I’ll be getting a lower back tattoo or something. No, actually, I would never do that. Not judging, but I’m worried the needles might be contaminated with hepatitis. And what if when I’m fifty years old, my flabby, stretched-out skin distorts the image into a grotesque blob of ink? Okay, I’m still a prude. Whatever.
Next item on the agenda, meet up with Janine. Actually, I have an assignment due on Monday. Amendment to the agenda: homework first, then meet up with Janine.
Chapter 18
Easton
Something’s not right about Dad’s fall. No matter how many times I go over it in my mind, I can’t put my finger on the piece that doesn’t fit. If the doctor was right, and Dad’s fall wasn’t because of a medical issue, it means Zorro spooked and then wandered back and stood by him until help arrived. Dad’s ridden Zorro for eighteen years, so it makes sense he would stand by him. It’s the spooking in the first place that doesn’t fit with the Zorro I know. Dad shrugs it off and blames it on Zorro getting older. And maybe he is injured or losing his sight or something, but I’m almost positive there’s more to it than that. Dad’s not telling me everything.
After lunch, Dad falls asleep on the couch, so I decide to take Zorro for a test-ride and head out to where they found Dad. I can’t remember Dad ever being thrown from a horse while he was working. A few times he got tossed when saddle-breaking a new horse, but Zorro is a seasoned work horse. The only other possibility I can think of is they stumbled on a rattlesnake or wasp’s nest. But even if that is what happened, Dad should have been able to ride-it-out if Zorro reared up. And if he can’t hold on anymore when something unexpected happens, he probably shouldn’t be out here riding alone. Not that he’ll ever admit to that.
It’s a forty-five-minute ride from the house. Zorro is moving fine, relaxed and not favoring anything. No welts from bee stings. No blood on his legs from an animal bite. His breathing is fine. As we get closer to the valley where it happened, his ears prick forward in the direction of the stream. The trail heads north from here, but Zorro’s attention is focused intently to the east. I release the reins and let him lead towards the water, through some low brush, and over some fallen logs. If he did encounter snakes or wasps on their last trip, he’s either already forgotten or doesn’t give a shit.
Once we clear the brush I notice a series of tire tracks in the dirt. We use quads on the ranch, and it’s possible that’s how the ranch hands came out to search for Dad, but the wheel bases on these tracks are too wide to be quads. More likely 4x4s, and they stopped upstream. Zorro leads the way to a spot where whoever it was got out of their vehicles. I dismount to study the footprints more closely. They were made by thick treaded boots, not cowboy boots.
While I’m taking pictures of the prints and tracks, Della calls.
“Hi. How are you?” she asks but then starts talking again before I have a chance to respond. “Before you answer, I have something to tell you. Okay, so don’t be angry or disappointed or irritated—basically just suspend whatever reaction you’re going to have for what I’m about to tell you because chances are you won’t be thrilled, but it’s already done, so no point getting all worked up over it. I mean, not that I’m trying to boss you around and tell you how to feel. Truthfully, I just don’t want you to be upset with me even though I did something you probably won’t agree with. Do you promise to have no reaction?”
Not sure if I should laugh at her nervous ramblings or be concerned. “Why? What did you do?”
She sucks in her breath for a second before she blurts out, “I let Chuck move back in. But with conditions. And I’m sorry if you don’t agree with my decision to give him a chance to redeem himself, but I think it was the right thing to do. Until he screws up again and then you can say I told you so. I’m pretty confident that won’t happen. I hope. But I might be wrong. Are you mad?”
“No. If you think it’s the right thing to do, I trust your judgement.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Uh.” She hesitates as if she’s going through a catalogue of reasons why I shouldn’t have faith in her ability to make good decisions. When she realizes she doesn’t have to defend her reasons, she relaxes. “Thank you. I promise I can handle it, and I don’t want you to have to worry about anything here while you’re there taking care of your dad. How’s he doing by the way?”
“He’s fine but grumpy as hell because the doctor told him he can’t ride for three weeks.”
“Does he remember what happened yet?”
“No, but I just rode out to the spot where it happened to look for clues. I found some tire tracks. Maybe trespassers.”
“Do you think your dad tried to confront them and that’s why he fell?”