Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
The bell on the door clatters, but I don’t look up. Tuesday at ten past five–I know just who it is.
“Jo Jo trying out for the team?” Dean asks, drifting in lazily, letting each heel of his boot drag across my worn natural wood floors. Wearing a navy blue Bluebell Bruisers pullover, Dean plunks down at the stool opposite me at my work table. He drops his hat onto the surface and runs his fingers through his hair with a long sigh. After I nod he says, “Man, it’s still warm when it should be coolin’ down.”
I lift my head to meet his gaze, lowering my burnisher down to the counter. I’ve been working on a saddle for Jo Jo for the last few months. My plan was to give it to her at the end of this school year, as her graduation gift. After she graduates each grade, I’ve established the tradition of giving her a handmade leather good. When she was little, she loved it. Coin purses, sandals, headbands–she loved every damn thing Dad made. Now, though, she’s growing away from me and our traditions. Still, I’m making the fucking saddle.
“Now I know you aren’t here to talk about the weather, so let’s get down to it.”
Dean chuckles, reaching into his back pocket to tug out a tri-folded piece of graphing paper. He smooths it out on my work surface amidst the scraps of leather and tools, and tugs a mechanical pencil from his breast pocket, clicking twice.
I’m ready for it, grabbing my tool to refocus on smoothing out the roughly cut edges. But I feel Dean’s gaze on me, and irritation pricks at me. “What?”
I notice his shrug in my periphery. “Just… you know. You didn’t say much about Jo Jo trying out for the Bluebell Bruisers cheer team, that’s all.”
I lower my burnisher again, this time with an annoyed sigh. “C’mon now, Dean. How do you think I feel? I feel like my girl would take up a sport she hasn’t had a lick of interest in just to avoid spending time with me. I feel like I’m losing her to growing up and she’s annoyed by even the sound of my breathing!”
Dean listens, and I don’t talk seriously too often, but when I do, he pays attention. “High school is all about fitting in,” he offers softly, smoothing his hands over his already flattened paper .
“I went to high school with you. I remember what it’s like,” I quip, letting the burnisher sting against my fingers because right now, the heat alleviates the burning in my chest.
Dean’s head wobbles as he mindlessly curls the edge of his paper, his focus on me. “Yeah but… I work there, Jake. I’m in the classroom and out on the field with these kids almost every day, and I’m telling you, Jo Jo is only trying to find a place where she fits.” He lifts his brows, his face cautious but serious. “It’s about her, not you.”
I hate that what he’s saying makes sense, and I hate even more that he could be right. If it’s not about me, I can’t fix it. Right now, all I wanna do is sulk and moan. “Quit sulkin’, Jo Jo will ride with you again. It ain’t over. But let her put it on hold for now.” He reaches beneath the workbench to the six-can fridge I have stashed there, taking out two beers. He cracks them both open. Dean slurps the foam from the rim after sliding me the other, then takes a longer drink. “All that sage advice. I earned this beer.”
I drink mine, but not without rolling my eyes first. “Just get to it,” I tell him, refocusing on the leather in front of me. I’m working on smoothing out the holes for the laces right now. I decided her first custom saddle would be embellished with leather lacing around the edges, and now that the holes are done, I can see the tree through the valley, and it’s gorgeous.
Dean clears his throat and presses the tip of his pencil to his paper, starting with the first line item.
“Tanner Colt.” He doesn’t bother glancing my way, but I still ask the obligatory question.
“How’s his arm? Still actin’ up?” I ask, a burn creeping through my fingers from the burnisher heating up. I reach for my glass tool and swap them, cooling my hand as I continue to work over the rough edges of each grommet.
“Arm’s all square. He’s been throwing great. Same Tanner, natural leader, great attitude.”
I nod my head. “Starting QB.”
Dean scribbles a check mark and continues moving through his roster of boys. He’s been the varsity football coach at Bluebell High since he finished his teaching credentials seventeen years ago. The star quarterback himself, he’s great with kids and teens alike, and was made to be the head coach. Still, he likes to run his starting lineup past me before each game, and tomorrow is their first scrimmage. Dean always gives the guys the day off from practice before the scrimmage. He says it’s for rest, but the truth is, it’s so he can come here and brainstorm starters.
When it’s all said and done, half the saddle’s grommets are smooth, leaving me the other half for tomorrow. Dean’s lineup is set and the mini fridge beneath the desk is empty.
My phone rings, and I know it’s nearing six. That’s when Jo Jo has been calling me to pick her up. Her life is all about after school cheer camps for the last few weeks. A few of those days she got home earlier than six, some around five, even one day she got out shortly after four. But now, according to Jo Jo, it’s going to be nearly six everyday. She leaves before eight and I don’t see her till six, and then she goes straight to her room.
Dean claps me across the back as he filters past me out the door. “Thanks, buddy. Tell Jo Jo I said hello. And tell her I said congratulations when she makes it. I know she will.”
I lock the door at Turner Saddlery and adjust my hat, pleased to feel evening overtaking the midday heat. “You’re at high school around high schoolers everyday,” I repeat his words back to him, adding, “tell her yourself.” Then I smirk. “I’ll tell her.”
He shakes his head, stepping up into his truck, parked right out front. Before closing the door, he pokes his head out one more time, the brim of his hat nearly shading all of his face at this angle. “Parent information night is tomorrow, in case Jo Jo didn’t mention it. School gym. Six o’clock.”
I lift a hand to wave him goodbye, and head off to pick up my daughter from cheerleading.
I drum my fingers along the steering wheel, in time with the quiet beat of the old country song wafting from the speakers. Jo Jo huffs out a pointed sigh, her way of telling me that I am doing something that annoys her. I turn the music up, and stop drumming my fingers.
Despite the fact I’m picking her up from cheer in the field house and heading to a cheerleading meeting, I don’t bother asking how cheer went. I’ve had my head bitten off the last few nights by foolishly inquiring about it when I pick her up. I already know it’s going fine and good so I decide to bring up something I saw in the paper this morning. Do I want to talk about Hudson’s flavored milk? Not really, but I want to talk to my daughter. I want her to want to talk to me.
“I saw in the paper this morning that Hudson’s gonna have root beer flavored milk at the market this weekend. Should I pick up some homemade vanilla ice cream and we grab a pint and make shakes? Sounds pretty good to me,” I say cautiously, without bringing up all the times she and I made floats and shakes together when she was young. It was one of the many things we did together. And we didn’t just do everything together because I’m a single father. I could’ve had a nanny. A live-in someone. A maid, an au pair. I could’ve had it all. I didn’t want someone else to raise my girl. So I did. But these days it feels like I was absent her whole life and she’s angry with me for it.
“I don’t want to go to the market this weekend,” she says casually, her fingers skittering over her smartphone keyboard as she most likely text messages someone.
My chest aches, and I swallow heavily. “C’mon now, the market is great.” It’s our thing.
She faces me, the setting sun casting shadows one one side of her profile, illuminating the other. Sometimes I see Janie so clear and pure in Jo Jo’s face that it nearly steals my breath. This is one of those times.
“You sure are beautiful like your momma, you know that?” I say softly as the radio DJ alerts us to a commercial break.
“Dad,” she says irritatedly, like that one word itself is rolling its eyes.
“C’mon,” I nudge, reaching across the seat to poke her knee. “Root beer shakes with Dad. Could be a nice little Saturday night.”
She sighs, stuffing her phone away in her bag like I ordered it and she’s angry at me. “I’m not going to the market. I don’t even like milk anymore, Dad. Saturday night I’m going to my friend's house.”
“Cass and Pey?” I ask of her two best friends, the Brownstock sisters. They live here in Bluebell, and while their parents are from Oakcreek, they’ve been in Bluebell since the girls were two. Jo Jo has been in their class since pre-K.
“Jasmine and Alexa,” Jo Jo corrects, “they’re trying out for cheer, too.”
I scratch at the back of my neck, but I’m still as uncomfortable as ever. And a little lost, too. “Never heard you mention them,” I reply. “Hope you didn’t cast Cass and Pey aside once you?—”
“Do you really think I’d do that, Dad? Do you really honestly think I’d just stop being friends with Cassidy and Peyton just because I’m trying to be a cheerleader? I wouldn’t. God. That is so annoying that you just asked that.”
By the time her arms are folded over her chest and her face is turned as far away from mine as possible, we’re at the high school gym and I put my truck in park.
I let out a sigh. “I don’t know how to talk to you, Jo Jo.”
She doesn’t turn her head, but I spot the reflection of her eyes in the window. Glassy and wide. She’s upset and I hate it. I hate that I think I caused it and I don’t even know how. “I’m not going to the meeting. I’m waiting in the truck.”
“Jo, I bet your friends are in there. You don’t have to sit with me. You can go off with them.” I reach out and put my hand on her knee. My eyes burn when she pushes it off.
“I’m staying in the truck.”
Being back in this gym as a thirty-eight year old man makes the place seem tiny. Everything that happens in this space, though, feels so momentous. Dances. Pep rallies. First kisses. I know what Dean’s saying about high school, how hard it is and how teens are just looking for their place. I get it. But why does finding her place in high school make Jo Jo hate me so much? That part I just don’t think I’ll ever understand.
But I’m patient. And I’ll be here when she grows out of whatever this is. Because I’m hopeful in addition to being patient, and I choose to believe that this is just an unfortunate phase.
Parents are scattered about the bleachers, half of them in business clothes and shoes that shine under the gym lights, the other half looking a lot like me, in worn jeans and filthy cowboy boots. Everyone looks tired, the fatigue of a full day of work, making and packing meals, and ushering grouchy teens around written in every crow’s foot and dark circle. But happiness is there, too. Heads coming together to share a whisper, laughter echoing through the walls as people discuss the quality of their day with their loved one, the squeak of sneakers against shiny hardwood as the teenagers who had to come with their parents wrestle and horseplay on the gymnasium floor. Times like this, I feel alone.
I got friends, and I got Jo Jo. And I’m rarely alone. But I’m lonely as hell.
At school functions when I’m surrounded by families, I feel both alone and lonely. I just pray that Jo Jo doesn't feel either of those things. I want her to feel supported and loved, and I want her to know that I have her, and no matter what, I’ll always have her.
Wonder if she feels that sitting alone in the truck in the parking lot.
With leaden legs, I climb the stairs and take a seat on an uncomfortable wooden bleacher, groaning as I settle in. I set my eyes on the paper I picked up on the way in, reading over the financial requirements of Bluebell football and cheer, and the hours required in community service, along with the GPA requirement. I’m thumbing through the fine print when a shadow drops over my paper, and Hudson Gray takes a seat next to me. We’re wearing the same hat, and he tips his Cattleman to me.
“Nice hat. ”
I smirk and extend a hand. He shakes it. “Hudson Gray, how are ya?”
He sighs as he rests his elbows on his knees. “Oh, good. I’m real good. Tired as all hell but good.”
I don’t want to look because knowing about another man's intimate life with his partner is not something I’m innately interested in. But the teeth marks on Hudson’s neck are kind of hard to ignore. He rubs his hand along his neck self consciously, his cheeks flaming beneath his dark beard as he quietly explains, “Dolly. She’s ovulating.”
I recall seeing his young wife Dolly at the farmers market a couple weeks ago. “Isn’t she already pregnant?”
Hudson chuckles. “That’s what I said but…” he shrugs, then diverts our attention away from his love life, for which I’m grateful. “Jo Jo cheerin’ now?”
I nod. “Yeah, she is. Trying out soon.”
Hudson looks around for a second. “Where is she?”
“Sitting in the truck because she didn’t want to come in.”
He clucks his tongue. “I am not looking forward to Honey and Mabel becoming teenagers.”
My brows furrow. “Hey–Bear and the girls are young. What’re you doing here?”
He smiles, ear to ear. “I’m giving the team a booth at the market to fundraise. The entire season, every weekend.” He leans in. “It’s not as benevolent as it seems. They agreed to doing milk deliveries after practice for the entire season,” he swipes his hands along his thighs. “How could I say no to that?”
I shake my head. “An offer you couldn’t refuse.”
“Indeed.” He scratches the back of his neck, quietly adding, “Jo Jo will be a great addition to cheer. But with cheer practice being every day of the week, when are y’all riding together? ”
In that moment, I’m jealous of Hudson, and not because of the teeth marks down his neck but because his kids are little. Most of them are still babies. He’s got years left to be the apple of their eyes, to impress them and teach them, to love on them and easily feel their love in return. Biggest problem little kids have is the juice not tasting juicy enough, or the cartoon making them angry. At the end of the day, his kids always talk to him, and love him. And right now, I’d give it all up to have Jo Jo back in that way.
“We aren’t, not until she’s done with cheer at least,” I tell him, shrugging my shoulders as if not riding together anymore doesn’t feel like a knife dragging through my insides. “We’ll pick it back up when she’s ready.”
I feel his thoughtful eyes on me as the athletic director saunters into the gymnasium, adjusting the microphone. “Well, at least you two still have the farmers market. You’ll always have that between ya,” he says, patting me on the back before he quietly says goodbye and heads to the table of volunteers near the door.
At least you two still have the farmers market.
He’s so busy at the markets, he doesn’t realize. Jo Jo and I haven’t run the Turner Saddlery booth together in over a month. Hudson’s words loop in my brain, colliding with Jo Jo’s from just a few minutes earlier. I don’t even like milk, Dad. I’m not going to the market, Dad.
A familiar ache rolls through my chest, and I bring my closed fist to my sternum, hoping to knead it away. It stays, and so do I, sitting through an hour long meeting about what’s expected from my kid if she makes the team. I learn the rules, find out how much of my money they want and then I drive my sulking teenager home. She goes to her room and slams the door, and I take a beer to the garage and pull out a new piece of soft, fawn leather. Laying out the piece across my cutting board, I grab my X-Acto and start cutting thin stripes. During the day, I make what I sell to Bluebell, mostly saddles, but bags and belts, too. I have a decent line of riding crops for barrel racers, also, but anything that spans beyond a rodeo gets made here.
In my private workshop.
I measure and cut until the beer is empty, and then keep going. By the time I'm done wrapping the braided rawhide around the handle, leaving the lash at the bottom free, it's nearly eleven. After everything is tied off, I hold the quirt beneath the lamp on my work desk, turning it over in my palm.
This one isn’t meant for horses. With more lashes than the usual quirt, this is a flogger. Boots to the floor, I move over to the metal cupboard lining the back wall, one tucked behind my parked truck. Using the keys on my belt, I open the cupboard and hang the flogger on an empty hook, next to the other things I’ve made.
I’m not sure what using these would feel like, but I know I like to dream. Imagining the supple leather of one of my crops marking the skin of a woman who trusts me enough to let me do it? I adjust myself quickly before closing and relocking the cabinet. Maybe one day, and maybe not.
Until then, all my frustrations and heartache come out in these designs, only to be locked away, along with the rest of my feelings.