Chapter Twelve
Both her words and her air seemed to excite not only the admiration, but the amazement of her auditors…very dashing and daring indeed.
Chet leads me to the blue barn, which is several hundred feet to the left of the horse ring. The door’s handles don’t quite line up; they’re warped and askew.
Inside, it’s dark and spiderwebbed and smells like cedar. In here, you can feel the years, all stacked up like hay bales. Straw crunches beneath my boots, while Chet’s steps seem heavy enough to rattle the eaves.
In the corner, I spot a slop sink and, strangely, a toilet. “Do those work?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Chet says. “Years ago, the owners had a mind to turn this into a guest house. Clearly, they didn’t follow through on their plans. Except . . .” He grins and points past a rusted grain bin and a couple of empty stalls. “Let’s go upstairs.”
I look toward where he’s pointing. There’s a narrow staircase that’s more like a ladder with aspirations. It’s bolted to the north wall. Above us is a hayloft, and above that, a small hatch in the ceiling. It’s the classic horror-movie setup, but I’m too curious to be nervous.
“Lead the way,” I tell him.
Chet goes first. I follow, trying to ignore the unreasonably nice view of Chet’s jean-clad butt. At the top, Chet leans against the wall, catching his breath. “Are you afraid of ghosts?” he asks, just conversational. “Because supposedly there’s one up here.”
“I’m not scared of ghosts,” I say. “Just ex-fiancés and evil sister-in-laws.”
That makes him laugh, though he also tilts his head for a moment, as if in confusion.
This room above the hayloft is barely big enough for two people to stand up straight.
Someone—probably years ago—finished the walls with plywood and painted them in crazy, swirling streaks of blue and green and metallic gold.
There’s graffiti, poems, and a battered easel still upright in a corner.
I’m drawn to it like a moth to a flame. “This is so cool,” I say, running my fingers along the easel. “Perfect spot for an artist to create.”
“Yeah, I wish I could let you use this space, except it’s, uh—” He gestures with hands, fingers splayed.
“Hardly OSHA approved?” I finish for him.
“Exactly,” he answers. “Best not to come up here.”
“Then why show it to me now?”
Chet shrugs. He ambles toward me, standing so the light through the eaves hits him just right. “I wanted to share the strange beauty of this place.”
He’s close enough that I could measure his eyelashes. For a second, there’s nothing else in the world but us two, the bohemian feel of this place, and his hand brushing mine.
The tight space and the low, slanted ceiling are making me dizzy. Like I’m at the very top of a roller coaster, right before gravity yanks me down. Looking into his eyes, I swallow roughly. “Thanks,” I rasp.
“For?”
“Showing me the barn, of course.” My lips part.
He’s staring at my mouth; I can tell. And I get the sense his pulse is racing, just like mine. Perhaps it’s subtle, but Chet seems to lean toward me, tilting his head to the side . . .
We’re two heartbeats away from collision.
Then, Chet gasps. Jerks back like someone burned him with a cattle prod. “Holy hell!” He grabs me around the waist. Almost lifts me, almost throws me to the side. Almost, but not quite.
Instead, I’m crouching, watching as Chet, who’s grabbed an ancient paintbrush, swings it around like he’s a samurai, then stomps his feet on the creaky wooden floorboards.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
“Spiders!” Chet cries. “That’s what’s happening. There was a web!” He points to the spot where, a moment ago, I stood. “A spider was about to jump onto you, Jane.”
“And this is a five-alarm bell emergency?”
Chet’s stomping ceases. He stares at me, aghast. “Have you ever been bitten by a spider? Had one burrow beneath your skin, only to lay eggs, so its babies hatch and crawl out of your open wound?”
“No, and neither have you. At least not the part about spider babies crawling out from a bite—that’s urban legend.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Chet says. “Spiders are evil little fuckers. Do you really want to take that chance?”
Laughter erupts from the deepest part of my belly. “Oh my God. You’re afraid of spiders?”
He breathes in and out, nostrils flaring. “You’re one to talk. At least there’s a name for my hang-up. Lots of people have arachnophobia. But chronic sympathy-puking for horses? That’s not even a thing.”
“Touche?.” I stand up straight. “You got me there. Shall we climb back down?”
“Yeah,” Chet says.
We’re silent on the way down the ladder and out through the blue barn. But once we’re outside, I speak up. “Hey, could I have a couple of days off next week? River wants to take me backpacking.”
Chet shoves his hands into his pockets. “River wants . . . come again?”
“You know River, one of the landscaping guys? The good-looking one, with the amazing green eyes. He’s doing this two-day hike along Vallecito Creek Trail. I’d really love to go, if you can spare me.”
“Oh. Um, sure. Of course.” Chet’s chin dips and rises in one abrupt movement.
“Awesome. Thank you.”
I spin on my heel, feeling Chet watching me as I walk away.
I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking.
***
Hours later, after a six-minute hot shower (the longest I can hope for with my trailer’s hot water heater), I pour myself a glass of wine and, feet curled beneath me, sit on my two-cushion couch by the window. Then I call Bront?.
She answers after several rings. There’s music and chatter in the background. “Hi!” she yells into her phone. “Everything okay?”
“More or less,” I say. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, no—just out for drinks with the gang from work.”
“Sounds fun. I’ll let you go.”
“You sure?” Bront? asks. “Cuz I could move to a quieter spot, like outside, or to a toilet stall—”
“That’s not necessary. We can talk later.”
“Alright,” she says. “But hey, call me tomorrow. So you can spill the tea about Chet and Birdy’s breakup.”
Suddenly, there’s an uneasy sensation in my chest. Like my heart’s being tickled. And I hate being tickled. “Chet and Birdy broke up?”
“You haven’t heard?” Bront? clicks her tongue. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s all over Instagram.”
Huh. I mean, it’s one thing for Axel Rose to imply that Chet and Birdy called things off. It’s another thing entirely for them to broadcast their relationship’s demise on social media.
After assuring Bront? that I’ll call her again in exactly twenty-four hours, I reach for my laptop and do something that, weeks ago, was unthinkable.
I open an Instagram account.
The first and only person I follow is Birdy Banks. As I scroll through her thousands of posts and reels, my fingers tremble as if touching something forbidden.
Two years ago, Birdy and Chet were wandering through sun-drenched markets in Marrakech, tasting neon fruits, laughing at some shared joke.
There’s a shot of them strolling hand in hand across a secluded beach—his strong arm around her delicate waist, her long blond hair fanning in the breeze.
The sunset bathes them in a wash of orange and lavender, their smiling faces haloed in light.
Birdy always looks model-perfect. She’s leggy with high cheekbones, her blond, silk-straight hair hanging in a curtain.
Together, Birdy and Chet are like a royal couple in a private kingdom.
It seems impossible they could ever falter.
But then comes a post that clenches my heart.
Birdy’s in a hospital gown, cheeks pale but eyes determined, sharing her diagnosis.
Days later, standing in her immaculate kitchen while cradling green juices and spirulina pills, she vows to beat lymphoma.
More posts about holistic remedies and talk of moving to Sugar Pine, where the hot springs are rumored to possess ancient healing properties.
There’s a reel of her riding Copper Cash at Resilience Ranch, overlaid with bold text: “The oil no one’s talking about that kills cancer cells in an hour.
” The caption spirals into dense medical jargon—lysosomal membrane permeabilization, 2015 studies . . . I skim it, confused.
There are lots of posts where Birdy extols the virtues of clean living and the healing power of horses.
Stuff about how, since horses are prey animals, they constantly wonder if today will be their last day.
“I can totally relate to that feeling,” Birdy states.
“These horses and I are helping each other.”
Then, a few weeks ago, she announced that she was leaving for Port St. Lucie, Florida, where she’ll be a temporary outreach advocate for a nonprofit that aims to “bridge holistic cancer treatments with comprehensive, results-based medicine.”
More posts. Birdy meeting with doctors, nutritionists, and wellness experts, or sharing information about which cosmetics use the most carcinogens, how to detox your liver, and the “biggest lies” about your cancer diagnosis.
She makes having cancer seem glamorous.
Then, in a reel posted earlier today, Birdy announced that she and Chet broke up. “Chet couldn’t be my port in the storm. Sometimes letting go is the only way to find yourself.” She stares into the camera with no makeup on, hair tucked behind her ears, blue eyes like puddles of rain.
There are thousands of comments—well wishes, hugs, prayers, and heart emojis. But there are also angry comments; people aren’t angry with her, but with Chet. “Forget him,” one says. “Only a true bastard would dump you when you’re sick.” It’s a good point. But perhaps there’s more to the story.
Or perhaps, Chet is actually a true bastard.