Chapter 8 #2
The truck is missing when I finish the trek around the barn, indicating Gramps is at one of his two local haunts: the racetrack or the post office.
Rather than start with my chores the way I ordinarily would, I decide to go for a ride first to burn off some of the nervous energy fizzing inside me.
After dropping my backpack in the kitchen and getting changed, I head into the barn. Eat My Dust, better known as Dusty, whinnies when I head to her stall first.
“Hey, sweet girl,” I murmur, rubbing the soft hair directly beneath her forelock. She nudges against me, soaking up the attention. “You ready to run?”
Dusty’s warm breath saturates the fabric of my fleece jacket as she continues to nuzzle me, looking for treats.
I grab her halter from its hook and slip it on, before leading her out into the shavings-strewn aisle.
Dusty tosses her head impatiently after I clip on the crossties, eager to get outside.
I tack her up quickly; my fingers so well-trained they move through the familiar motions without requiring any thought.
I lead Dusty outside, over to the empty water bucket propped upside down for this very purpose.
I balance on it and swing my right leg over her broad back, then shove both feet into the stirrups.
She dances beneath me as I settle in the saddle, my knees bent forward to compensate for the short stirrups.
I keep a tight grip on the reins, but not to guide her.
She knows the route to the training track as well as I do.
Dusty’s literally champing at the bit. The leather reins dig into my palms as she makes her impatience with the slow pace clear.
“Easy, girl,” I murmur as we cross the driveway.
The training track is nothing more than an oval stretch of dirt, but it serves its intended purpose.
It used to be surrounded with fencing, but most of the rails have sagged, giving it a forlorn, tired appearance.
Not that the energetic horse snorting excitedly beneath me minds.
The starting marker is still standing. I guide Dusty over to it as I rise into a crouch over her black mane, making sure I’m balanced evenly over her withers.
I watch Dusty’s muscles ripple and tense beneath me as I tug her to a stop. I ensure the reins are taut and weave my fingers into the fine strands of her mane.
Then, I let her fly.
I lost track of how many times I’ve ridden a horse a long time ago.
My mother returned to Landry while she was pregnant with me.
Living on Matthews Farm is all I’ve ever known.
I remember the day Dusty was born ten years ago.
I remember watching her place second in our last season as a working farm, back when we still had the money for trainers and jockeys and grooms and entrance fees. Horse racing’s an expensive business.
No matter how many times I do this, the thrill is just as spectacular. There’s nothing in the world quite like it.
My eyes tear with water.
My thighs burn from the effort of holding upright and still.
My skin prickles as chilly wind sneaks underneath my fleece and combs through my hair.
Any discomfort fades from my mind as I look down at Dusty’s loping strides eating up the sandy dirt. The familiar scenery of Matthews Farm flashes by in a blur of color.
I may not have a lot of things, but I have this.
The rest of my chores drag. Partly because I don’t have my usual ride to look forward to after they’re finished. But mostly because I’m overflowing with apprehension about seeing Caleb tonight.
I finish feeding the stallions their dinner, and head inside. Gramps is back from his outing. I head to the kitchen sink first to wash the grime off my hands. Gramps leans over to kiss the top of my head as he pokes at what I think is soup on the stove.
“Good day?” he asks as I dry my hands on the threadbare towel hanging on the stove door.
“It was fine,” I respond. “Newspaper meeting ran long. I’ve got a new article to finish for the next issue.”
“Oh, really?” Gramps frowns at the bubbling liquid he’s stirring.
“Uh-huh,” I confirm, brushing past him to grab two bowls from the kitchen cabinet.
“What’s the article about?”
I sigh. “Baseball. It’s an interview with Caleb Winters.”
“They assigned that to you?” Gramps raises his grizzled eyebrows in surprise. He’s well aware of my distaste for both the sport and the boy.
“Yes.”
“Huh,” is all Gramps says at first. “Might be good for you, Lennie. A chance to branch out.”
It’s exactly what I expect him to say. Gramps is a perennial optimist. Part of why I’m such a pessimist. Together, we represent some semblance of actual reality.
“I guess. I don’t have a choice, really. I need to stay on the school paper if I want to work for the Gazette .”
Gramps purses his lips, the same way he does every time the topic of my fall plans comes up. “Dinner is ready. You ready to eat now?”
“Yeah, I am.” I hesitate. “I have to meet Caleb for the interview tonight.”
Gramps does a remarkable job of hiding his surprise. Me meeting a boy at night? Even for a school assignment? Unheard of. “Well then, let’s eat.”
“What are we having?” I ask, a little apprehensively.
Gramps chuckles. “Potato soup.”
Well, that explains the unappetizing color, I guess. I ladle some soup in one bowl and give it a tentative sniff. Not bad.
Before Gramps injured his hip last year, we used to share in the barn and household chores.
Now that he’s significantly less mobile, I’ve almost entirely taken over caring for the horses, leaving Gramps to handle the cooking and cleaning, for the most part.
It’s far from a perfect set-up but we’ve managed to make it work.
As soon as we finish dinner, I take a shower and change into clean clothes. Hair still dripping, I pull out my phone. Caleb said to call. So, in a small attempt at revolution, I text the number I memorized instead of paying attention during the paper meeting.
Lennon: Free whenever.
Immediately, I second-guess my choice of words. But before I have time to overanalyze for too long, he replies.
Caleb: I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.
I didn’t expect him to respond so quickly. Or at all.
I rush downstairs.
“I’m, uh, I’m going to head out,” I tell Gramps, grabbing my backpack from the corner of the kitchen where I dropped it earlier. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Gramps is in the middle of loading the dishwasher, but I’m sure he’ll be retiring to the living room and a baseball game within minutes. I’d be surprised if he’s not asleep in the next hour.
“Okay, Lennie,” Gramps replies. “Have fun.” There’s a teasing lilt to his words, and I’m tempted to roll my eyes in response before heading out the front door.
The wind has died down. It’s not as cold outside as I braced myself for, especially with wet hair.
I hurry down the dirt driveway, skirting around potholes that make the truck’s suspension groan every time it leaves the property.
I make it to the end of the driveway before any headlights come into sight, breathing a sigh of relief when I reach our faded green mailbox before the ten minutes have passed.
I’m not ashamed of the ramshackle property, although most people probably would be. But Caleb setting so much as a foot on Matthews Farm feels too intimate. Too personal.
Caleb was right earlier. I have been avoiding him. I am freaked out about the moment that transpired between us at his grandfather’s funeral.
Headlights appear.
Nerves knot in my stomach as the window of the shiny black truck rolls down. “Were you planning to walk, Matthews?” Caleb asks.
“Just trying to speed things along,” I reply, opening the door and climbing into the passenger seat. His car smells brand-new, and the soft leather seat feels like sinking into a cloud. I expect there to be junk food wrappers and baseball equipment strewn about, but the interior is immaculate.
“You’d rather walk down your driveway in the dark than spend an extra two minutes with me?”
“You said it, not me,” I say as I snap my seatbelt. “And…you’re the one going out of your way. I figured it was the least I could do.”
I say the words as a peace offering, but they’re true. I’m not used to other people taking care of me. Helping me.
He seems to hear the honesty in my voice, because his turns serious. “It’s not a problem.”
The quiet crooning of a country song about a broken heart serves as our soundtrack for the five-minute trip from my house to his.
The Winters’ estate is just as striking at night as it was during daylight when I was here on Sunday for the funeral, maybe even more so. The main house is entirely lit up, illuminating the sprawling yard and immaculate landscaping. It looks even larger empty, without crowds milling about.
Caleb parks right in front of the mansion, then climbs out and heads straight for the stairs that lead up to the porch. After about twenty feet, he glances back and realizes I’m not following him.
He says nothing, just arches an eyebrow.
I blow out a breath, well aware he’ll probably make fun of me for this. As far as I know, Caleb is about as interested in horses as I am in baseball. But I’ll never be back here. This will be my one chance to see Kentucky’s most famous stable.
“Can we—can we look inside?” I ask, nodding toward the huge barn.
Both eyebrows rise now. “You want to go in the barn?”
“Yeah. Just for a minute?”
He shrugs. “Okay. Sure.”
Caleb veers left, heading toward the looming structure that houses the horses that have won a majority of the Landry Cups over the last decade or so.
Soft lights glow all around the exterior of the barn, showing off the clean concrete that surrounds it.
Caleb approaches a small side door tucked next to the massive sliding one and types a code into the keypad attached to white siding.
A light flashes green and he pulls the door open, gesturing for me to walk inside first.