Chapter 2
ONE UNPREDICTABLE THING
JOEY
Way Out by Nicolina
“What are you doing in here so early?” Mom’s familiar voice causes me to straighten, vertebrae popping in satisfying succession along my spine.
“Couldn’t sleep.” The excuse rings hollow even to my ears. The truth sits heavier: Maggie’s impending departure carves a hole in my chest no amount of manual labor fills. “The stalls need to be cleaned for the new guy.”
Mom approaches with two steaming mugs, her faded jeans and flannel shirt, unable to hide the kind of beauty that has nothing to do with effort.
At forty, she still draws eyes whenever we go into town, something I’ve watched happen my entire life.
The same blonde hair and blue eyes as me, but somehow on her they look elegant, perfectly styled even when she’s mucking stalls.
I got the basic template but missed whatever magic ingredient transforms those features into something worthy of attention.
“Drink before you collapse.” She hands over the mug, the ceramic warm against my calloused palms.
“Thanks.” I blow a bit of the steam from the mug. “How’s the grant paperwork coming along?”
Mom’s fingers brush a wisp of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear with practiced ease. “It’s coming,” she sighs.
The coffee scalds my tongue the minute I take a sip, but I welcome the caffeine jolt through my veins.
She leans against the stall door just as the sound of tires on gravel draws her attention, and she pushes off the beam. “Sounds like our new arrival is here.”
I abandon my coffee and follow her out of the barn to the waiting truck and trailer.
Dad strides across the yard from the house grumbling. His tall, broad frame moves with purpose. The familiar crease forms between his brows, the one that appears whenever we bring another project horse home.
I’m already scanning the trailer for signs of what we’re dealing with—height of the kick marks, position of the tie points, whether they’ve used a butt bar.
“Joey.” He steps closer, shoulders tensing as he eyes the trailer. “Transport guys are paid to handle the dangerous ones.”
I straighten, meeting his concerned gaze with steady eyes. “I’ve got this, Dad.”
The crease deepens, but he gives a slight nod.
The transport driver climbs down from the cab, clipboard in hand, face grim beneath a weathered ball cap. “Fair warning, he’s rough. Nearly took my head off just to get him in the trailer.”
I hear Dad grumble beside me.
When the ramp lowers with a metallic groan, the unmistakable scent of neglect hits first, sharp and sour.
His ribs protrude like accusatory fingers beneath a dull, patchy coat. But his eyes are what guts me. Wild terror swims in the bloodshot pools, whites showing as he fights against restraints with desperate abandon.
“Christ,” Dad breathes beside me, moving protectively closer. We see this on the regular but it never fails to shock us.
My movements are slow and deliberate. “Hey there,” I whisper gently, keeping my hands visible. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you here.”
His ears pin flat against his skull, nostrils flaring with each panicked breath. Scars crisscross his flanks in a roadmap of cruelty.
“Round pen first,” I say quietly to the driver. “He needs space to decompress.”
We release him into the round pen, where he explodes into the space as if shot from a cannon. His hooves churn the dirt, body twisting in furious bucking against imaginary enemies. I observe his frantic circling, waiting as he eventually slows, sides heaving with exhaustion.
When he finally stops, he positions himself in the corner furthest from us, head high, muscles coiled.
“Project horse,” Mom states, appearing at my side.
I rest my hands on the round pen’s cool metal rail. “Aren’t they all?” I knock my shoulder into hers. I may have my dad’s quiet disposition, but the instinct and nature to work with horses comes entirely from my mom.
The horse watches me from his corner, ears flicking toward my movements.
Dad’s hand settles on my shoulder. “Give him room to breathe. Go check on Maggie to make sure she’s ready. Her ride will be here soon.”
I flash him a smile, and then give the horse one last look, noting how his ears track my movement as I head toward the house, despite his effort to appear disinterested.
Inside the bedroom Maggie and I have shared our entire lives, she kneels amid a hurricane of discarded clothing, cramming items into an already bulging duffel. Typical Maggie, known about this trip for weeks but packing twenty minutes before her ride arrives.
“Where are my platform boots?” Maggie asks, digging inside the closet while pieces of clothing fly out.
“What do you need platform boots for? You’re filming, not joining a rave,” I tease, dropping down onto the bed.
Maggie’s head pokes out from the closet glaring at me. “Yeah, I’m filming but I don’t need to look the part,” she grumbles.
“Oh, I see.” I smile at her. “You want to look hot for the rock star you’re filming.”
“Ha! Because that’s where you’re wrong. I have one rule. No rock stars. They’re trouble.”
She had that the other way around. We both knew it but I wasn’t gonna say that to her face.
“How’s the new horse? I heard the trailer pull up. Score!” A pair of platform boots fly out of the closet, nearly missing my head.
“He’s a handful, bucking around that round pen tiring himself out,” I scoff. “He’s gonna need a lot of work.”
“Translation: you’re already in love with him.” She tries and fails to zip up her duffel.
“You seriously aren’t taking any of this?” I survey the mess carpeting our floor.
Where my existence centers on practical jeans and sensible boots, Maggie embodies indie rock rebellion: ripped fishnets under cutoffs, combat boots, and a vintage band tee artfully slashed to expose one shoulder.
“Three months on a tour bus with five sweaty musicians. I’m packing light.
” She blows a strand of blonde hair from her eyes, the shoulder-length mess already escaping its halfhearted ponytail.
“Besides, this stuff,”—she picks up a pair of artfully distressed denim—“graduated from the Joey Archive to the Maggie Collection. It’s called fashion evolution. ”
“Those jeans were mine?”
“Were being the key term.” She holds up a threadbare vintage tee with strategic holes and then tosses it at me. Like I would ever wear it. “I’m doing you a favor. You dress like someone who gets eight hours of sleep and has a 401k. It’s alarming.”
“I need my sleep. I have to get up by dawn and…”
She levels me with a glare. “My point exactly.”
I scoff, waving a hand in her direction. The room quiets, and it’s a potent reminder of Maggie’s impending departure.
“Are you gonna be okay?” she asks.
“Of course,” I fake a smile. “I have the new horse and the volunteers are coming this weekend. Not to mention helping Mom with the anniversary party…” I trail off.
Maggie’s gaze narrows, reading me with twin precision. “You’re not fooling anyone, Joey. You look like you’re about to throw up.”
Her assessment hits too close. The knot in my stomach tightens with each minute that brings her departure closer. Behind her smartass comments and easy shrugs, the slight tremor in her hands betrays her. She feels it too, she just hides it better.
“Velvet Drift can’t be that bad,” I say, redirecting. “Dylan must see something in them.”
“Please. They’re one step above a garage band with connections.” She tries and fails to zip the duffel again. “When’s the last time you did something that didn’t involve hay and horse shit?”
The comment stings more than it should. “I’m not boring. I’m responsible,” I say with indignation.
“Same diagnosis, different prescription.” A balled-up sock flies at my head. “Your idea of living dangerously is sorting the recycling wrong. Live a little, Joey! You’re twenty going on seventy-five.”
The accusation lands like a splinter under my skin, small but impossible to ignore.
Am I really living, or just existing in the safe little box I’ve created?
I stare at my hands, calloused from rope and reins, wondering what else they could be doing, who else they could be touching.
My mouth opens to defend myself, but no words emerge.
“That’s what I thought,” she says, voice softening around the edges. “I love you, but sometimes I worry you’re out here playing horse whisperer while the rest of us actually live.”
“I’m doing what I love.”
“Are you? How would you know when you’ve never done anything else?” She shoves a camera lens into its padded case. “What if there’s something out there that would make your heart race instead of just keeping it safe?”
A horn blares from the driveway.
“That’s my ride.” She checks her phone, slings her overstuffed duffel over one shoulder, and grabs her camera bag. At the doorway, something shifts in her expression, vulnerability flashing across features usually animated by confidence.
“This is weird, right?” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Us not being together?”
Something twists behind my ribs, a physical ache spreading from sternum to throat. We’ve shared a bedroom our entire lives—twin beds on opposite walls, her side an artistic disaster zone, mine ordered and precise.
This separation tears through our lifelong connection.
“Super weird,” I admit, voice sandpaper-rough. “But it’s just for the summer, right?” I let out a halfhearted laugh. This isn’t just for the summer and we both know it. When Maggie’s done with the tour there’ll be another job. And I’ll still be here.
She nods, a muscle jumping in her jaw as she swallows.
“Who’s going to steal my clothes and return them with mysterious stains?” I ask.
“Who’s going to lecture me about leaving wet towels on the floor?” she counters.
The weight of our shared history hangs between us. Then she drops her bags and pulls me into a fierce hug. I bury my face in her hair, my lungs filling with coconut shampoo and cherry lip gloss.
“I’m going to miss your boring ass,” she murmurs against my shoulder, voice uncharacteristically thick.
“I’m going to miss your smart mouth,” I whisper back, blinking against the burn behind my eyelids.
The ridiculous thing about twins: when she leaves, half of me goes with her. Who am I when I’m just Joey, not Joey-and-Maggie?
She pulls back, hands gripping my shoulders, face composed but her eyes suspiciously bright. “Promise me something?”
“What?”
“While I’m gone, do one thing that scares you. One thing that isn’t safe or planned or predictable,” she says, which I wasn’t expecting.
My eyes roll, grateful for the return to normal. “Like what? Rob a bank?”
“Don’t be dramatic. I mean, go out. Meet someone. Have crazy, spontaneous sex with a hot stranger. Preferably one with tattoos and questionable life choices.”
“Maggie!” My gaze darts toward the hallway, mortification heating my cheeks.
“What? You’re twenty, not dead.” Her wicked grin stretches wide. “Just because you’re still carrying a torch for Jesse O’Donnell doesn’t mean—”
“I am not.” The words hiss through clenched teeth, face flaming. “That was years ago.”
Maggie taps her temple with two fingers. “You can’t hide anything from me. Twin telepathy.” She wiggles her fingers mysteriously between our faces.
I giggle despite my irritation. “There’s no such thing.”
“True,” she concedes with a shrug, “but your diary from high school should be classified as a tragic women’s fiction novel.”
“It was not,” I start, outraged, but the horn blares again, longer and more insistent. There’s never enough time to say goodbye.
Expression softening, she squeezes my hand. “Promise me. One unpredictable thing.”