16. ashton
sixteen
ashton
. . .
THE LITTLE THINGS - Kelsea Ballerini
I lower Emmy to the ground and she runs off ahead of us, Bunny bouncing in his little backpack on her back.
We’ve had a great morning. We took two slow, steady laps of the paddock, and my mom came out to see us with some apple slices for Emmy and Mayo.
We laughed a lot. I think my heart grew three whole sizes.
I love to cook, and to bake especially, and my life in New York is pretty good.
But being home has made me realize that everything I ever wanted is right here on the ranch.
As Emmy waves at us from the side of my dad’s truck, Brooks and I both increase the length of our strides to catch up. Mid-step, he nudges me with his elbow.
“Nice hat, devil,” he says. His voice is just loud enough that I can hear it over the background noise of the ranch.
Just quiet enough that no one else can hear.
I reach up to touch the brim of it. It’s gray felt with a deep eggplant coloured headband.
Both Everett and I received hats for our thirteenth birthdays, and we both still wear them today.
Although, I wear mine a little less than he does.
He has several hats he rotates on a regular basis, whereas I only have this one and a deep brown one with my initials burned into the brim.
“Thanks,” I say, a little self-conscious. It’s been a while since I’ve chosen a traditional cowboy hat over a ball cap.
“Makes you look like a real cowgirl. Suits you.”
“You being nice to me, demon?”
“I’m always nice.”
I don’t have time to come up with a witty response before we reach Emmy and Dad’s truck.
Brooks scoops his niece into his arms and flings open one of the back doors, leaning in to tuck Emmy into her car seat.
Once she’s safely clipped in—with Bunny out of his carrier and in her arms—he backs out and turns to me.
“You drivin’, Ash, or am I?”
“Drive it if you want, I don’t care. S’not an exciting truck, it’s just Dad’s old Chevy.
” I don’t mean to be so apathetic, but driving is a means to an end for me.
I’m glad I can do it, but there’s little pleasure in it—not like riding a horse.
I took a couple driving lessons in this truck, but for the most part, like my big brother, I learned to drive in Grandaddy Smith’s truck. The one Everett drives now.
“She got a stick?”
“Of course she’s got a stick.”
A grin blooms on Brooks’s face, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he says, “Get in, devil. I’ll drive.”
Brooks reaches for the driver’s side door handle and I walk around the front of the cab to the passenger side.
I’m hardly surprised at his desire to drive.
For as long as I can remember, he’s loved cars and trucks, and he’s pretty handy with an engine.
His own truck is a gargantuan beast of a vehicle with a double rear axle and screaming V8, and—unfortunately for his love of what he calls “real driving”—an automatic transmission.
While Dad’s Chevy is much smaller than Brooks’s Ford, and Brooks himself is a little more cramped in the driver’s seat, it’s an old not-quite-classic with a stick shift, and the absolute glee on Brooks’s face as he manually shifts up through the gears is worth riding shotgun.
It’s only a short drive into town, and Emmy and I spend most of it deciding what we want for lunch.
Emmy wants chocolate ice cream. I’ll settle for a cheeseburger.
It takes less than twenty minutes before Brooks is turning the truck into an angled parking spot right outside Skillett’s favorite lunch spot: Miss Celia’s diner.
Miss Celia’s smells exactly like it always has.
A little hamburger grease, a little coffee.
Plenty of sugar from the milkshakes and ice cream floats.
They’re the best milkshakes in all of Texas, I’m pretty sure.
We’re barely through the door before we hear Miss Celia herself greeting us from behind the counter.
She shuffles over with the same limp she’s always had.
“This can’t be little Emmy Jean Forbes! Surely not! Emmy Jean is a little baby, but look at you—you’re a grown-up girl!”
Emmy—between me and Brooks, holding both of our hands—giggles unabashedly.
“I grown up!” she agrees. “Grown up big sister.”
“A grown-up big sister, huh?” Miss Celia leans down as best she can. She’s never been very tall, and she’s never let her mobility hinder her. “Big sisters need to eat good food. Y’all here for a slice of pie?”
“I reckon I could make room for pie,” Brooks says, patting his stomach.
The man has damn near washboard abs—I saw them clear as day when he stripped off his tank top fixing fences last week—but he eats like calories won’t ever catch up with him.
“Came here to bring my favorite girls for lunch. You got my fresh lobster and caviar, Miss Celia?”
Miss Celia whips at Brooks lightly with the tea towel slung over her shoulder. I shudder at the thought of lobster. Shellfish has always been easy enough to avoid, for the most part. But I’m pretty sure Brooks is feeling bad for even mentioning it when he glances awkwardly at me.
“You know I have no such thing. Take your ladies and sit down, Mister Hart. Ashton, honey, you need a menu?”
“You changed it while I was gone, Miss Celia?”
Miss Celia scoffs derisively. That was a dumb question. Miss Celia’s menu hasn’t changed in all the twenty-three and a half years I’ve been alive. “’Course not.”
“Then I’m good.”
“I’ll be over in a minute. Little Emmy Jean need a cushion to sit on?” Emmy is already crawling into the booth ahead of Brooks, and her head just about pokes above the tabletop. “I’ll go grab one.”
I join Brooks and Emmy at the table.
“Usual?” Brooks asks. It’s been such a long time since I’ve been here, and even longer since I was last here with Brooks.
I’m almost surprised he even remembers what my order used to be.
But then again, we spent so much time together as children and teens, and it seems there’s a lot he hasn’t forgotten in the short time we’ve spent apart.
“You remember that?”
“Cheeseburger with bacon and barbecue, right? Ev has a cheeseburger with an extra tomato slice. You have bacon and barbecue sauce. Jody’s is blue cheese, because he’s insane, and mine is pepper jack cheese and crispy fried onion.
All four of us have eaten exactly the same here since we were six years old, Ashton. Of course I remember.”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right,” I say quietly.
It shouldn’t shock me that he remembers.
He’s always had a great memory for this kind of thing.
And it’s not like it’s just my regular order he remembers—it’s everyone else’s, too.
But there’s a quiet alarm bell blaring in the back of my mind that won’t seem to quiet no matter what I do, so I turn to Emmy, instead.
“What kind of burger are we getting for you, Emmy?”
“Miss EJ here”—Brooks pauses to accept a cushion from Miss Celia and lays it down on the bench seat for Emmy to slide onto—“normally goes for the slider cheeseburger with fries, don’tcha, EJ?”
“That’s what your sister ordered last time,” Miss Celia agrees. She places a coloring page and some crayons on the table in front of Emmy, who immediately dives in. Sounds like Harriet is getting Emmy started on Miss Celia’s burgers nice and young. “You two both gettin’ your usuals?”
And look, if it’s okay for Miss Celia to remember my regular burger order after being away for two years, then surely it’s okay for one of my best friends to remember it, too. I nod in agreement.
“Two strawberry milkshakes, and a small vanilla one too, please and thank you.” He grins up at Miss Celia—although even sat down, he’s almost as tall as she is standing—and she scribbles one last note on the small pad in her hand. Then he looks at me with a grin and says, “My treat.”
“You got it.” Miss Celia looks at us with a smile I can’t quite decipher as she stuffs the notepad into the pocket of her apron and shuffles away, leaving the three of us alone.
“What are you girls planning for this afternoon?” Brooks asks. I haven’t really thought much beyond this. I was planning to have Emmy cook some lunch with me, but Brooks derailed that plan when he brought us into town instead. So maybe I’ll reframe our kitchen time, turn it into something else.
“I don’t know. Thought maybe Emmy and I could do some baking. Make something yummy for her to take home with her.” I’m thinking aloud now. Brownies, maybe; they’re pretty simple, and Emmy can help me mix the batter. Or maybe some sugar cookies, and she can decorate them.
“Ridin’ horses, bakin’ sweets—you turnin’ my niece into your mini-me, little devil?” His eyes glimmer with mirth as they catch mine. I hold his gaze.
“If the boot fits.”
For almost a whole minute, neither one of us says a word. Neither one of us looks away, unwilling to be the first to break whatever spell has caught us this time. But Miss Celia shows up at our table, laden with three milkshakes, and the spell is broken anyway.
Emmy and Brooks engage in a milkshake slurping contest, a challenge that continues until our burgers arrive.
Then it’s a challenge to see who can eat their burger quickest. Emmy’s burger comes with a side of cucumber and carrot sticks, and we share them between all three of us.
It’s not long before all three of our plates are empty and we’re all stuffed full.
“Y’all cleaned your plates, that’s what I like to see.” Miss Celia limps over and stacks our plates together.