“I know you mean well, but I can’t go there, okay?” I realize he sees Eric as a good provider, someone who would look after me. If only he knew.
It pains me not to tell my parents why I gave up that prestigious job. As the first person in my family to attend college, I know they had so many hopes pinned on me, and I can’t help but feel I’ve let them down. I wish I could tell them the reason so they’d understand why I’ve been distant since I came to the farm, but it would crush them. Like it crushed me.
I don’t know how long I stand there after the phone call. Finally, I grab a sponge to wipe the kitchen counters and force myself back into action.
Mel’s words echo in my head. It’s uncomplicated here. Simpler.
A hollow laugh escapes me. Uncomplicated? Nothing about this is uncomplicated. Cal and Melissa were the sweetest couple on the planet. They took me in when I had nowhere to go, gave me a home, and now they’re gone.
And it’s all my fault.
What if I hadn’t come? What if I had simply headed home to Corpus with my tail between my legs instead of coming here? They’d still be alive.
Tears stream down my face, and I hold back the sob building in my chest. I scrub the counter harder because that’s what I do in a crisis. I clean. Organize. Eric would joke it’s the Mexican in me. Like that’s even funny.
Worse, though? He said he loved that I didn’t look Hispanic. WTF, right? It took almost a year and a half of dating him to see his true character. What if I had married that man? I shudder. He might be a senator’s son, but I know migrant workers with more class.
A little whimper from the baby monitor reminds me that there are worse things than marrying the wrong guy. How about marrying the right one and then losing everything?
The sob I’ve been holding back breaks from my lips, and I quickly cover my mouth to mask the sounds.
It doesn’t take a genius to see I’m in over my head. Way over my head. I keep saying everything will be okay when Brady gets here. I only hope that’s true.
3
Brady
Logan Airport is blanketed in several feet of snow and soot after a storm blew in the other night. Boston in November. It’ll get worse before it gets better.
All around me, the Thanksgiving decorations hanging in the terminal stand garish next to the rage and disbelief churning in my heart. I still can’t fully wrap my head around what happened that night.
After playing phone tag with the police department, I finally spoke briefly with a deputy who explained that my brother’s truck got caught in a low water crossing during a torrential thunderstorm. His vehicle slid down an embankment and flipped over, trapping him and his family in a flooded creek bed.
My vision blurs as I stare out the massive windows.
“Do those directions make sense?” The Southern drawl in my ear snaps me out of my haze, and I readjust the phone against my shoulder. The woman repeats the words, but I can’t process what she’s saying. It’s like I woke up the other morning and nothing in my life makes sense any more.
Taking a deep breath, I try to pay attention. This is the first phone call Katherine and I have had that hasn’t been completely garbled with static. I’m lucky to get one bar of signal on my phone here.
I clear my throat. “Can you do me a favor? Can you text me directions to the farm?”
She sighs. “Sure. No problem. See ya soon.”
“Yup. Thanks.”
I should be nicer to that woman. Katherine, Melissa’s friend, has been keeping an eye on the property since we got the news three days ago. I booked the first flight out, but weather delays have bumped my departure twice. Needless to say, sleeping upright on a hard chair for the last few nights at Logan has put me in a peachy mood.
When I step off the plane in Austin five hours later, I take the used Harley FXR for sale across the street from Hertz as a sign. Granted, it needs a lot of work, but I know a good thing when I see it. And since I sold my bike six months ago for twice what I paid after making some repairs, I’m sure I’ll be able to get my money back if I need to sell this one. Besides, I’d rather ride this than rent a car for God knows how long.
Forty-five minutes and two grand later, she’s mine.
Dropping this kind of money on a bike is the most irresponsible thing I’ve done in ages. But sitting on the worn leather and gripping the handlebars is the only thing that’s made me feel I can keep my shit together. I’m hoping a few long rides will help me clear my head and figure out how the hell to handle everything that needs to be done down here. Fortunately, I packed light, and my belongings fit on the rusty luggage rack that’s mounted on the back.