Chapter 2
THE BIG STATE AT THE BOTTOM
“Texas? As in, the big state at the bottom that’s, like, all hot and muggy?” my little sister questions. I drag my sunnies down the bridge of my nose and cut a judgmental glance at my mom.
“The big state at the bottom?” I repeat, blinking at my sister who just earned her driver’s license a week ago. “Laney, it makes me a little worried that you’re unsure of where Texas is located.”
She doesn’t look up from her phone, and a moment later, she outstretches the screen toward me, displaying a map of the United States. “I do know where it is. See, it is the state at the bottom.”
Nudging my glasses back up, I rest my head against the Barcalounger and let out a sigh, the chilly San Francisco morning a welcome refreshment against my warm, post-run skin. “Well, right there, at the bottom. That’s where I’m moving.”
Mom closes the sliding door behind her before sinking into the chair next to mine, sliding her glasses on, too. “And they’re paying to relocate you both ways, right? There and back?”
I nod, retrieving my own phone from the side pocket of my work-out leggings. Opening my email, I read the details to my mom and sister, then lock the screen when I’m through.
There’s complete silence on the patio but for the swish of ocean lapping against the cold sand on the other side of our property. Finally, my mom breaks the quiet tension.
“Quinn, are you sure you want to do this?” she hedges gently.
My younger sister hasn’t quite developed her skills for conversational nuance. “You literally hate everywhere but the beach. And do you know anything about horses? Or… cowboys?”
Fortunately, I already had this moment in private last week, when my assignment was passed down. Lane, who wasn’t sure where Texas was without the help of Google, is right. Well, about this at least.
I do hate that there’s no beach in North Texas, where Sable Sky rests.
I love the ocean, obviously, because the ocean is amazing.
Nothing beats watching swells of cerulean and cloud-white foam crush against the sand, washing away imperfections and feet prints.
Long walks on the waterline or even along the pier, with fresh, bay air every morning and night, regardless of the season. It’s perfect. San Francisco is perfect.
And horses. She’s got me there again, too.
I’ve never even seen a horse in real life.
Seriously. My mom took us to the zoo a ton growing up, but horses are too domestic for zoos.
And average city folk like us do not encounter animals like horses.
The most experience I have with animals really boils down to those two years when I owned Magnum, my hamster.
That I accidentally lost.
“Despite the fact that Devin has only given me two weeks with this information before leaving, I’ve been doing my very best to educate myself on all things Sable Sky.”
“Devin is a such a fucker,” Lane sighs, earning her a hasty, “Watch your mouth” from my mom, who then adds, “but he is.”
I let out a sigh. “He’s trying to rattle me.
He wants me to feel unprepared and anxious, and he wants me to make a crappy documentary that never sees airtime and goes straight to DVD,” I continue, sitting up a little as deserved rage swarms my veins.
“He hopes I flunk this gig so he can fire me for performance and not just because he wants alone time with Ms. Camel Toe in office without me around to remind him that he’s a cheating, backstabbing, lying, pencil dick with no class!
” My Coke glugs its contents onto the deck as my chest heaves, as my nostrils flare, and angry, hurt tears emerge from my eyeballs and slide down my cheeks.
Lane blinks at me and my mom is on her feet in a second, at my chair, trying to squeeze in and wrap her arms around me.
“I’m sorry, honey. I’m sorry about everything that happened with him,” she says, her soft words and gentle arms making my heart rate lower and my blood pressure calm.
Moms have that way about them, and I’m lucky to have her.
She means everything to me. Lane, too. And the fact that she doesn’t tell me she was right about it being a bad idea to date my boss is nice, too.
“But you know what, you won’t fail. You may have to work a lot harder, and get less sleep, but you’ll make a wonderful documentary about this man and his comeback. You will. Devin won’t get his way.”
Her words assuage some of the worry lingering inside me, the worry that weighs heavily on my chest when I try to rest my thoughts at night, the worry that I wear beneath my eyes and on my shoulders, dark and heavy, reminding me that if I fail, my enemy will be watching.
At my mother’s house, in her arms, I feel a bit better.
Am I worried about failing? Worried that I won’t be able to wrap my head around this project, and, therefore, will make a terrible film, tarnish my name, and lose my job?
Yes. And I know that my job is technically hanging on by a thread.
But I also know that I am strong and good at what I do, and I will work my hardest to make the best film that I can.
Devin Billings will not get the best of me, no matter what.
“At least it’s a doc about a bull rider. I mean, it could’ve been curling or bowling. Those are way less hot than bull riding,” my little sister says as she taps on her phone, undoubtedly texting her friends.
“She’s not going because it’s a hot sport, Lane,” Mom chides.
“I know. I know she didn’t choose it. I’m just saying, it could be worse. It could be an old guy curling instead of an old guy riding a bull or whatever.” She drinks from her can of soda before asking, “How old is he, anyway?”
I shrug again, because that detail escaped me on my first read. “I don’t know. Like, late thirties? Old.”
Mom’s lips twist before turning down, displeasure written across her features as she nudges her sunnies up to the top of her head. “Quinn, that man is not old. He’s barely younger than I am.”
I sip what’s left of my Coke that nearly all poured out during my fuck Devin rant. “He’s old to me.”
“Well, tomorrow’s the day. You ready?” she asks.
I nod. “I’m ready.”
Truth is, I’m itching to get out there and get started. I’ve already mapped out a list of places I want to check out, not just places relevant to the town of Sable Sky and its rodeo history, but locations important to the film’s focus, Mr. Landry Vaughn.
Apparently, according to Devin’s assistant, Morgan, who has sent me all the project emails, this man has his own ranch where he breeds horses and sells eggs, and sometimes rents the land to livestock auctions.
I’ve got a list of questions brewing in my mind, and even though I love the beach and hate dirt, bugs, flies, the smell of manure, feeling sweaty, being in the hot sun, and a litany of other things I’m sure to experience, I’m excited to see Sable Sky.
I’m excited to start filming, to spend evenings alone making sense of footage, getting ideas as I drive through new places, and meet new people.
I love San Francisco, but I’m ready to get away as much as I’m ready for this project, I admit. And I won’t let what’s happened in the city come with me. My suitcases are packed and full, and there is no room for baggage.
As ready as I am, I’m also pretty terrified, too.
That evening, with my childhood bedroom door shut, I sit on my bed cross-legged and open my notebook and laptop in tandem, reading about Sable Sky’s history online.
A few pages into which is a glorified GeoCities page with ads for cowboy boots and trailer hitches littering the site, I see the name of the man I’m making the film about.
Landry Vaughn.
According to this town’s website, Vaughn isn’t the only star to compete in the Sable Sky upcoming rodeo, but he’s the only one who won five times, back-to-back, with his last win six years ago being his highest score of his entire career. A career that seemed to abruptly end.
He vanished from the sport.
The article doesn’t mention much else, other than the fact that after years away, Landry Vaughn signed up a month ago to compete this July.
“The Comeback Rider,” I say aloud, testing the documentary title. It sounds good.
“Okay, okay, Mom, I got it from here,” I shout toward the direction on my phone which is currently sliding around on the passenger seat next to me.
Another huge pothole sends my little car careening, my front right tire temporarily eaten by the crater in the road before reappearing, sending my cell phone into the air across the cab, knocking me smack-dab in the forehead.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I crow, reaching between my thighs to snatch it off the floorboard.
Dust clouds my windshield as I soldier on down the long road, a large farmhouse barely visible in the near distance. But visible, thank goodness.
“Don’t curse, Quinn!” my mom chides through the speakerphone, which is now partially muffled by my thighs, where my phone is pinched.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I am. But I see it,” I relay, lifting my boot off the gas a hair.
The engine tempers, and the dust settles enough to see the horizon.
“Oh my god,” I breathe, taking in the property closer.
I am fairly certain that whoever lives here probably has someone else’s face sewn to theirs and is wearing a bloody apron.
Throwing the car into park right there in the middle of the road, I ask, “Can you see me on Find My Friends? Am I seriously at the right place?”
“You just told me you are!” Mom shouts, the sound of her acrylic nails skittering on her phone screen as she undoubtedly pulls up our tracking app.