Suddenly I’m starving. I fix a couple frozen burritos
out of the half dozen Dad left behind. Wonder if Hillary’s invitation to move in includes food. They probably wouldn’t let me starve. I’ll figure something out, because that’s what people do.
I wolf down the mediocre
Mexican food, wishing it was Monica’s mom’s tamales.
Then I shower off the horse smell eclipsing my own nervous stink, slip into some hammies, call Monica to tell her I love her. Her echoed te amo settles gently against my pillow.
Good thing I’m exhausted.
I tumble toward slumber, hoping my dreams aren’t nightmares.
One Week
Until winter break, I plow through schoolwork, finals, basketball practice, and two games—Monday away, which we blow, and one at home on Friday, in which we blow the other team away.
Monday night I sucked.
Friday night, I kill it.
I’ve managed to regain
confidence and footing, mostly because of my friends, who’ve rallied around me, offering support, ideas, food, and a whole lot of love.
I haven’t heard a word
from my absentee father.
The next two weeks will offer me lots of time to ride and earn some extra cash. Plus, Peg’s vowed to start my dressage training. It’ll be good to have something new
to keep my brain occupied.
I can’t not think about Dad.
I can’t not worry about Dad.
Not One Word
Not even a call checking up on me.
He doesn’t care at all, does he?
And I’m worried about him?
So why tonight after the game do I abandon my teammates and very best friend, leave them to celebrate without me?
Why do I return to the house I, for the first time in my life, thought of as home, thinking maybe he’ll be here, knowing
he won’t. Why
do I sit here alone and cry for my dad?
The dad who left me reeling
six days ago, barely enough time
for my bruises to fade green.
The dad who never allowed me a real family, with a mom who I now suspect might’ve loved me all along.
The dad who constructed our lives on a foundation cemented with lies.
Where did he go?
What’s his name now?
When he meets
his next woman, will he even admit there’s a me?
He won’t, will he?
No, he’s excised me from his fabricated history.
I am raging.
I am wounded.
I am lost.
Saturday Morning
At the barn, Max, Peg, and I
discuss a possible schedule.
Understanding my situation,
they offer plenty of hours.
The horses—and we—will miss the extra attention when you go back to school, says Max.
“Once I finish basketball I’d
love to come work after school.
I’d leave the team, but I’m not
a quitter.” I realize that’s true.
We wouldn’t want you any other way, says Peg. We’ll be able to give you as many hours as you want. Hillary’s doctor insists she give up riding, and regardless, she’s planning to start at University of the Pacific in the fall.
“I thought she was going
to Stanford. Why the change
of plans?” But it hits me just
as Peg confirms, Gabe. UOP
is in Stockton. It’s kind of nice, really. She’ll be closer to home.
Quick Decision
Must be someone’s idea
of love. I’d ask if she’s already been accepted, but I figure if her dad can guarantee
Stanford, UOP is a no-brainer.
It’s called connections.
Maybe one day I’ll have some.
Max goes to saddle a horse for me and I take the time to ask Peg, “So when Hillary goes, you’re staying?
I mean, you could move
back to New York.”
I could do a lot of things, but I’ve made a life here, and just because one element will change doesn’t mean I want to uproot myself again.
“I get it. But what about
your fiancé? No chance
at putting that back together?”
He’s married now, with three kids, but even if he wasn’t, I wouldn’t try to rebuild a relationship that was less than fulfilling to begin with.
With age comes wisdom.
Wonder If That’s True
For everyone.
I cycle through the horses, and with each, anxiety about seeing Maya in just a few hours grows exponentially.
We’re meeting at the Diamondback Grill, best burgers in town, which means Syrah will be our server, at least if she gets her way, and she will.
After the last filly is put away, I take the time to run home (how can I still think about it that way?) and shower. No use immersing Maya in equine drift while she picks at her salad or whatever. I doubt her diet includes cheeseburgers.
I Get to the Restaurant
At six exactly. Maya’s already there, and Syrah is, in fact,
taking care of our table.
I approach cautiously. Not sure why. Not like she’s going to jump up and hug me. Oh God, please, no.
She does stand. But all she does is take my cold hand into her warm one and stroke it gently.
She smiles. Casey, sit down.
I’m so glad you agreed to talk.
No pressure, I promise.
We slide into our seats and
Syrah comes over to take
our orders, or check up on me.
Or both. “I’ll have my usual,”
I tell her, and am surprised