41. Show me the Binder
SHOW ME THE BINDER
JOEY
Fearless by Elsie Hollow
The porch swing creaks beneath us, and Maggie is suspiciously quiet. She’s tucked one leg beneath her the way she’s done since we were kids, phone face-down on her thigh, studying the yard with the kind of deliberate calm my sister has never once pulled off convincingly.
“What?”
She blinks at me. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Exactly. You haven’t said a word in three minutes. That’s a personal record.”
She picks at the cushion seam. “Okay, so there’s something I need to tell you, and I don’t want to upset you, but you should probably hear it from me before you hear it from someone else.”
“Oh my God.” I hold out my good hand. “I dislocated my shoulder, Maggs. I’m not in a full body cast. Tell me.”
“You say that now, but Mom has you wrapped in pillows like a porcelain doll, and I’m going to get blamed if you…”
“Maggie.”
She exhales hard through her nose. “Jesse was at the hospital.”
The swing creaks beneath us. A horse nickers in the near paddock, oblivious.
“Jack brought him. He showed up in the emergency room and Dad blocked him in the hallway.” Maggie pulls her knee tighter against her chest. “Dad and Jack got into a fight. Security had to step in.”
I close my eyes. “Dad didn’t tell me.”
“Of course he didn’t tell you. He’s been hovering over you like a Secret Service agent since you got home.” She shifts on the swing to face me. “Jesse was wrecked, Joey. He was asking about you and the baby.”
The ache behind my ribs tightens into a shape I can’t name.
Hearing it doesn’t erase the beach. Doesn’t erase four words carved into my chest like a brand.
But it complicates the anger in ways I’m not ready to untangle, because the boy who told me to get rid of our baby is the same boy who showed up in a hospital waiting room asking about that baby first.
“How did he even know I was in the hospital?”
Maggie’s mouth presses into a thin line. She wraps her arms around her knee, and the silence stretches long enough for me to connect the dots myself.
“Maggie.”
“I texted him.” She holds up both hands. “I panicked, okay? I didn’t think, I grabbed my phone and…”
“Wow, Maggs. Way to insert yourself into my business.”
She flinches, and for a second, the bravado drops. “I felt bad about everything, Joey. You were lying in a hospital bed and he didn’t even know. Whatever he did to you, he’s still…” She stops herself. “I was trying to help. I know it wasn’t my place.”
I stare at the yard, at the horses drifting through the far pasture. The anger flares and fades in the same breath, because Maggie did what Maggie always does: acted first, thought second.
“Next time,” I say, “ask me before you go full twin intervention.”
“Noted.” She exhales. “You’re not going to kill me?”
“I’m considering it.”
“He told me he royally fucked up,” Maggie continues, testing the waters.
“What did you say to him?”
“I told him to unfuck it.”
I laugh, small and surprised. “Sounds like you.”
“I’m a woman of elegant counsel.” She nudges my good shoulder with hers. “I’m not defending him, Joey. What he said was unforgivable. But I’m telling you what I saw, because you deserve the full picture.”
“Thank you, Maggs.”
She settles deeper into the swing, her shoulder pressing against mine, careful of the sling, warm against my good side. We rock in silence for a minute, the afternoon sun shifting across the yard, casting long shadows from the barn toward the house.
Part of me wanted him to disappear. To prove the worst, so I could hate him cleanly and move on. But he showed up, and now I can’t.
I file it away in the place where I’m keeping everything I can’t look at directly yet. The drawer is getting full.
“So.” I turn my head to study her profile. “Speaking of musicians ruining our lives. How’s Felix?”
The shift in her expression is instantaneous, something bright and unguarded breaking through the worry. “He’s good. Really good, actually.” She bites her lip, fighting a smile she’s clearly been sitting on for days. “He’s gonna record the album in LA.”
“In LA.” I let the implication settle. “Convenient.”
“So I need to figure out what job I’m gonna take next because I want to be here while he’s recording.” She picks at a thread on the cushion. “My agent’s fielding some offers, and I guess I’ll figure it out.”
“Maggie Morgan, making life decisions around a boy.” I arch an eyebrow. “You must be thoroughly dickmatized.”
She shoves my good shoulder, and I wince more from laughter than pain. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
I study her. Tour life changed her. Felix changed her. Or she changed herself and Felix was the mirror reflecting it.
“You’ve grown up on me,” I say softly.
“One of us had to.” She bumps her shoulder against mine. “The other one’s busy getting knocked up by masked rock stars.”
I laugh, watery and surprised, the first real one since the hospital. Maggie grins, fierce and satisfied, as if she’s made it her personal mission to pull it out of me.
“Hey, Maggs?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you’re home.”
She reaches for my hand and laces our fingers together, squeezing once. “There’s nowhere else I’d be.”
Townshend’s ears flick forward when I unlatch his stall door. He watches me from the far corner, head lifted, nostrils working.
“Easy.” I keep my voice low, steady. The sling on my left arm makes every movement clumsy, and my shoulder throbs in protest when I reach for the feed bin. “It’s me, you big grouch.”
He snorts and stamps once, wary of the sling on my arm and the unfamiliar smell.
“I’m not mad at you,” I say quietly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I was the one who wasn’t paying attention.”
Townshend huffs through his nostrils, unconvinced.
“I’m serious.” I lean against the stall door, my good shoulder bracing the wood. “I had no business being on your back when my head was somewhere else. You were spooked because I wasn’t present. I failed you.”
His ears swivel forward. One tentative step toward me, followed by another, until his velvet nose brushes my hand. Warm breath fans across my knuckles.
“There you are.” I find the spot behind his jaw where the tension gathers, scratching gently until his head drops an inch. “We’re okay, you and me. We’re going to be okay.”
I press my forehead against Townshend’s neck and breathe in the warm, grassy scent of him. His pulse thumps steady beneath my cheek—reliable, rhythmic, uncomplicated by human cruelty or the kind of hurt no amount of hay and peppermints can fix.
“Joey Elizabeth Morgan.”
Dad stands at the barn entrance, hands shoved in the pockets of his work jacket, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and the particular brand of fear he’s been wearing since the hospital.
“What are you doing in here?” He crosses the aisle in long strides. “The doctor said two weeks of rest. It’s been two days.”
“I’m fine.” I don’t turn around. “I can’t stay in bed all day.”
He exhales through his nose. He leans against the opposite stall door, arms crossed. I keep my gaze on the horse.
“Joey.” His voice is careful. “I don’t like this distance between us.”
“Yeah, well.” I scratch behind Townshend’s ear, still not meeting his eyes. “You should have thought about that before you got into a fight with Jack at the hospital.”
The silence stretches tight between us.
“I wasn’t wrong to protect you,” he says, his voice low. “I didn’t want that kid anywhere near you while you were lying in a hospital bed.”
I turn to face him. “That kid is the father of your grandchild.”
“And where is he now, Joey?”
The question stings because I don’t have an answer. “That’s between me and Jesse. And whatever we figure out, you need to be okay with it.”
Dad’s arms tighten across his chest. The barn settles around us in the afternoon heat.
“He showed up at the hospital, Dad. You’re the one who pushed him away.”
A muscle works in his jaw. He stares at the ground for a long moment, and when he speaks again some of the fight has drained out of his voice. “Maybe I was wrong about that. I was angry, and I took it out on him.” He pauses. “That doesn’t mean I don’t love Jesse.”
The admission catches me off guard. I didn’t come in here expecting that.
“I didn’t ask for this, Dad. I didn’t plan for any of it.” I step away from Townshend. “But this baby is happening. And Jesse’s family is part of this whether he decides to show up or not. Jack is the grandfather.”
Dad’s jaw tightens.
“Are you going to argue with him in the delivery room?”
He grips the stall door behind him, knuckles whitening against the wood.
“I’m not spending the next seven months refereeing a fight between two grown men.”
“Joey.” His voice cracks on my name. Dad uncrosses his arms, and his hands hang at his sides like he doesn’t know where to put them. “You’re my baby.”
“I know, Dad.”
“No, you don’t.” He shakes his head, eyes wet in the dusty barn light.
“But you will. You’re about to understand what it means to hold your child for the first time and realize you would burn the world down to keep them safe.
” He swallows hard. “And it never stops, Joey. They grow up and it never stops.”
His voice gives out for a second. He presses his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose.
“I love you so much it scares me. It has scared me since the day you were born.”
“You can’t protect me from everything, Dad.” My voice wavers.
“I know.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “That’s the part I can’t handle. My daughter was hurt and I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t fix any of it. And Jack was standing there telling me to let his son through, and all I could see was you in a hospital bed.” His chin dips. “I lost it.”
“Dad…”
“Being a parent is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” He holds my gaze. “You’re going to find that out soon enough.”
A tear slides down my cheek and I swipe it away with the heel of my good hand. “I need you to let me figure this out, Dad. On my own.”
“No matter how old you get,” he says, his voice rough and barely holding, “it’s hard to let go. So don’t ask me to.”
“I’m not asking you to let go, Dad,” I say, my voice thick. “I’m asking you to hold on differently.”
His composure breaks. His eyes spill over, and he crosses the space between us in two strides and wraps me in his arms, careful of the sling, one hand cradling my head the way he’s done since I was small enough to carry.
I press my face against his chest and breathe in the familiar scent of him, and for a moment I’m six years old again, safe in the arms of the man who made me believe the whole world was manageable.
“I love you, Dad.”
His arm tightens around me. He holds on for another beat, his hand steady on the crown of my head, and the barn is quiet around us except for Townshend shifting in his stall.
When he finally lets go, he clears his throat and swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.
“I don’t want this to ruin your friendship with Jack.”
“Jack and I will be fine,” he says. “We’ve been through worse.”
Townshend stretches his neck over the stall door and noses at my pocket, hunting for a peppermint. I fish one out with my good hand and hold it flat on my palm. His lips work across my skin, warm and velvet, and the peppermint disappears.
“He reminds me of another ornery horse we had,” Dad says, watching Townshend chew. “Ivan. You might have been too little to remember him.”
“I remember Ivan.” I smile.
“Your mother always smelled like peppermints too. She’d keep them in her pockets.” He leans against the stall door. “It was her secret weapon. Made all the horses fall in love with her.” He laughs quietly. “Me included.”
The warmth of it spreads through my chest. My parents built this place together.
Mom with her camera slung over one shoulder and peppermints in her pockets, Dad with his record store and his steady hands and his willingness to do whatever Mom wanted without complaint.
They gave me and Maggie a life surrounded by music and horses and wide open space, and I didn’t appreciate it until right now, standing in this barn with a dislocated shoulder and a baby on the way.
“You and Mom gave us such a good life, Dad. And I want to give my baby the same.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Jesus. I’m gonna be a grandfather.”
The words come out like a complaint, but the smile spreading across his face tells a different story.
“I’ve been thinking.” I lean my good shoulder against Townshend’s stall. “What if we turned it into a real therapy program? Equine-assisted therapy, certified and structured, the kind of program doctors refer patients to.”
Dad tilts his head, arms still crossed, but his weight shifts forward. Listening.
“I’ve been reading about it for months. There are programs across the country doing this: PTSD, anxiety, trauma recovery, behavioral health. The horses do the work, Dad. Townshend teaches me every single day.”
I run my hand down Townshend’s neck.
“I don’t know, Joey.” He rubs his jaw. “That seems like a lot of work. And you’ve got a baby coming. How are you gonna manage both?”
“I don’t have it all figured out yet.” I straighten up. “But I’m not going to let being scared stop me.”
“We have the land. We have the facilities. Mom has the experience with rehabilitation.” I hold his gaze. “I’ve been watching it happen right here without calling it what it is, and I’m done pretending it’s not real.”
Dad is quiet for a long time. Townshend wanders to his hay net with a dismissive flick of his tail.
“You’ve got a business plan?” he asks.
“I’ve got a binder.”
His eyebrows lift. “A binder.”
“With color-coded tabs. And I’ve researched certification requirements, liability, and cost projections.”
He rubs the back of his neck and exhales through his teeth. “I’ve never been able to say no to any of the women in this family.” He shakes his head. “It’s a real problem.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. He’s in.
“Show me the binder, Joey.”