Chapter 2
Tagger
“You see that, Beckett?” While slowing down, I drive steady and point across the interior of the rental car to direct his attention in the back seat to out the window. “When I was your age, only rows of crops were there.”
“What happened to them?”
“It was a lot for Grammy and Pops to take care of, so they sold some land and now farm for their own food and sell the rest at a farmstand on the weekends.”
“What does farming mean?”
The curiosity in his tone nearly undoes me. This was my whole world for eighteen years, yet six years into his life, my son only knows pavement and skyscrapers. It’s tempting to bang my head against the steering wheel. Instead, I take in a deep breath and remind myself why we’re back in Texas.
This is for him . And me . I need this trip more than I’ve let on to friends and family.
“You know Old MacDonald?” I ask as thoughts of Beck playing in the dirt roll through my mind.
“Had a farm! E-I-E-I-O,” he sings excitedly.
Poking the window, he’s still singing but more to himself, but then stops and looks at me with his mouth twisted to the left side of his face.
Our eyes connect in the mirror. I know that look; I’m about to be hit with a barrage of questions. He asks, “Do you farm?”
“I did. I used to while growing up here.”
“Did you like it?”
I nod without needing time to think. I grin, the memories probably better than the hard work it took to keep things running back then. “I liked it a lot.”
“Then why do you live in New York City?”
I stop the car just after entering the property past the rusted metal gate. Looking back at him, I reply, “Because you’re there.”
A smile grows just like my mom’s prized cabbage always grew—big and showy, and worth every ribbon she ever won. Beck’s smile has often been compared to mine. I’m always happy to take the compliment. “You ready to see Grammy and Pops?”
“Yeah!” He throws a little fist pump into the air.
I start down the dirt road that leads to the sage-green house with the front porch that wraps around three sides.
The same rocking chairs are still there like I never left.
The swing still hangs from chains I helped my dad attach when I was about Beck’s age.
The house hasn’t been painted since I was in middle school, and it is well past time, judging by the strips of wood I can see running across the siding.
But I needed to see this place again when I left the city.
Home.
My mom is already pushing through the screen door before I can park.
Her hair is shorter, a mixture of blond and gray running through it.
She’s tan, as usual, though she typically wears a hat in the sun.
She was a young mom, but years of working the farm can age anyone.
Those green eyes that she passed down to Beckett and me shine like emeralds when the sunshine hits them. “Tagger!”
I cut the engine and open my door. She may be a lot smaller than me, but she still knows how to swallow me in a hug like I’m still her little boy. “I missed you, Mom.”
Leaning back, she looks up at me. “I missed you so much.” When we part, I move to the back seat and open the door to get Beck out. “Oh my grandson, come to Grammy.”
Though they’ve only seen each other a few times in the past few years, Beck adores her. She’s comfort in human form, good for the soul, and always my biggest cheerleader.
She’s also hugging the life out of my son. He giggles, so I guess he’s going to survive. “You have gotten so big, Beck. I thought you were your father at first.”
He giggles again. “I’m big like you, Daddy.”
“You sure are, buddy.” I glance back at the house, “Where’s Dad?”
“Down at the river fishing.” She takes Beck’s hand and says, “You should go see him. While you're gone, I can stuff this little monkey bear with homemade strawberry cobbler. I just took it out of the oven.”
That reminds me. I grab the candy from the back seat before it has a chance to melt and hand it to her. “I always had great timing, but I think he’s had enough sweets until after dinner. We stopped and got ice cream in town before heading out here.”
“Ah! Well then.” Looking down at him, she asks, “How about you and I go inside and start on the succotash together?”
“What’s succotash?”
“I’ll teach you all about succotash. It’s one of your dad’s favorites from when he was little.”
I wouldn’t go that far, but no need to burst any bubbles. I need a break from the life I just left, so I won’t start any fights over vegetables while I’m here.
She starts leading him to the house. The two are peas in a pod, and it is like no time has passed since they were together last. “You should change clothes. You’ll get your nice clothes dirty if you don’t. You can find your boots and jeans upstairs in your room.”
My room was never kept as an altar to my glory days of high school or college but as a soft place to land as if she knew I’d need it one day. I find myself breathing easier being back home again and from knowing he’s in good hands.
My mom stops on the porch. “Your dad took the utility vehicle, but you can take the tractor if you want.”
The heat isn’t overbearing since it’s only April. “I can walk.”
“The fresh air always does us good.” She turns but then stops to add, “I’m so glad you’re home, Tag.”
I leave the keys in the car and shut the door. “Me, too, Mom.”
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I step forward. My Italian leather shoes contrast sharply against the green grass of spring, and I pay no mind to the dirt that already clings to the stitching and toes. Clothes can be replaced, but this feeling of freedom? It’s priceless.
I feel like I take up more space in the city, but that could be my ego or reputation. This, though . . . Amazing . At the top of the hill, I stop to look up at the clear blue skies and green land that stretches for miles, in awe of what a small part of the universe I am.
Passing the stables that used to be full, I see they’ve gone into disrepair.
I don’t blame them. With the larger barn still intact and in use, I don’t see the sense in keeping the stables up if they’re never going to be used again.
I start down the hill, spotting the tack shed.
My dad will be tucked in a lawn chair on the other side in the shadows of the sun.
It’s been too long since I walked around without the sound of car horns or someone shouting on the streets next to me. The hustle and bustle I’ve grown used to and annoyed by was left behind. I have the next five days to loosen the tension I’ve been carrying in my shoulders.
The quiet surrounds me—birds in the distance, the faintest water lapping the edge of the river, leaves on the nearby oaks blowing in the wind, and the crunch of weeds under my shoes.
It’s not quite the same sound that I remember from my childhood.
Instead, it’s lighter as if the weight of my boots made the crunch just a little more noticeable.
Boots . . . I grin, thinking about Pris.
She looked so damn good in that dress, and equally just how I remembered, though so many years have passed us by.
Windblown hair and boots so scuffed that I can still hear her getting a talking-to on Sunday mornings on the church steps.
And those bluer-than-the-Texas-sky eyes were always a giveaway to what she was up to—no good or the pristine little angel that earned her the nickname.
But so much has changed. I never looked at her twice when I lived here because the one time I did, Baylor knocked me down on my ass for it.
The memory has me chuckling like a fool to myself. It was one of the worst fights we ever got in. We weren’t known to disagree much, except when it came to who had the better truck, scored more points at the rodeo and with the ladies in town for the big show, and his sister.
Back then, she was an annoying little squirt who bugged us while we were trying to come into our own.
That dress with the little flowers flowing down the shape of her curves, with the dip at the front where the top button had slipped the hole, gave me another peek into how she’s grown.
I liked the swell of her hips when I held her, but it was her face that had me staring too long.
She’s fucking gorgeous and has come into her own alright. Damn.
Baylor hasn’t shared photos in a long time. Who shows off photos of their sister anyway? But I could have used a warning. Instead, I was stuck there with a growing . . . I clear my throat, though I’m not sure what suddenly clogged it.
Nothing like having your kid wreck your game, as if I still have any. I laugh again as I approach the tack shed. I’m not looking to give my dad a heart attack, so as I come around the corner, I call out, “Hey, Dad?”
Busted. He’s not fishing.
Asleep in a hammock under the trees, he’s snoring loudly. I consider waking him but decide to give him a few more minutes to rest, figuring fishing was his cover so he could sneak in a nap before returning to his duties.
I always thought it would be hard to forget this place. Although it’s embedded in my being, this river runs through my veins, and the air is the oxygen that I need to breathe. Nothing beats being here in person again.
I sit in the lawn chair at the river’s edge, my shoulders easing and my body slumping into the worn fabric. This is the life.
“Catch anything?”
Whipping my gaze over my shoulder, I see my dad grumbling as he slips out of the hammock. “I thought I’d leave it to the professionals.”
He grins as his eyes travel over the rocky bank and meet mine. “What brings you home, son?”
“A long flight and then just over an hour’s drive.” I stand and meet him halfway.
Turning a handshake into a hug, Dad pats me on the back. “Glad you made the trek. It’s been too long.”
“It has. Felt like a good time to make my way back.”
We step apart, and both cross our arms over our chests as if we’re a mirror with a time difference between his age and mine. “Where’s my little man Beckett?” He’s been trying to get my son here for years.
We only made the trip to Texas once when our son was barely one.
Anna hated it here. She claimed it was too dusty, too in the middle of nowhere, too deserted, and the worst for her, was that not one shop served her overly complicated coffee drink.
No barista ever got it right anyway, even in the city.
We had one night in The Pass before she demanded we leave the next day.
“Beck is up at the house with Mom. I’m sure she’s feeding him cobbler and smothering him in love.”
“How it should be.” He walks toward the river and picks up a rock, then taps it to his forehead.
Then he skips it across the surface like magic.
I always thought it was magic when I was young before he taught me his secrets.
Angles and shapes of rocks matter, how fast the water flows, and a gentle tap to the forehead for luck.
“Running from trouble or just need some fresh air in your lungs?”
My dad was never a man who talked to hear his own voice.
He’s more of a get to the heart of the matter kind of guy.
It’s a quality I’ve come to respect more as I’ve gotten older and dealt with assholes with their doublespeak to fuck everyone else at work for every lead, promotion, or opportunity presented.
Keeping my eyes forward, I reply, “A little of both.”
He steps closer and squeezes my shoulder before turning to walk away. “You always have a place to come home, Tagger.” He waves over his shoulder. “Come on. I want to see my grandson and get some cobbler before it’s gone.”
I pick up a rock and tap it on my forehead. I’m not sure if I have the same skills I once had, but I toss it anyway and hope for the best. I get two skips before it sinks. I’ll take the win. I turn to catch up to him. “Coming.”
“And you need to change clothes. I thought you were a tax collector when I saw you.”
Chuckling, I run to join his side. “It’s good to be home, Dad.”