11. Lo
— ? —
Lo
The road goes on forever when you don’t know where you’re going.
The letter crinkles in my jacket pocket every time I shift in the seat. The gas tank was full when I left. I drive in silence, because the one time I touched the dial it was him.
I pass the Marigold sign around three in the morning. Population 847. I’ve driven through here dozens of times, never stopping.
Bree Salazar. Hay contract, four years. A woman who once said to me over a loading dock: “If you ever need to disappear, I know how it’s done.”
I turn the truck around.
It’s almost four when I pull up her driveway. The porch light flickers. The front door opens. Bree steps out in a bathrobe and boots, a shotgun cradled loose in one arm and a toddler on her hip.
She sets the shotgun against the porch rail and walks toward me.
I roll down the window.
“Lo Cooper. It’s four in the morning.”
“I know.”
“You look like hell.” She says it without heat, just fact.
“I know.”
“You want to come inside, or you want to sit in your truck all night?”
“I don’t know yet.” My hands won’t leave the wheel.
“Fair enough. You got a preference, or are we just gonna stare at each other?”
“I need work. And a place to stay. I can pay, once I figure out how. But I’m not looking for charity.”
“Did I offer charity?” One eyebrow goes up.
“No.”
“Then why are you bringing it up?”
“Because I don’t want you to think-” I can’t even finish it.
“I don’t think anything, Lo. It’s four in the morning and I’ve got a toddler who thinks sleep is optional. I’m not doing a lot of thinking right now.”
“Is that James?”
“This is James. He’s been up since two. We’re both thrilled about it.” The toddler blinks at me, unimpressed.
“I remember Rosie being the same way.”
“Rosie was worse. At least James eventually falls asleep. Rosie just kept going until she crashed face-first into whatever was in front of her.” She shifts him to her other hip. “You coming in or not?”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“It’s not imposing if I’m inviting you.”
“You’re not inviting me. You’re standing on your porch in your bathrobe at four in the morning because some crazy woman showed up in your driveway.” She lets me hear how absurd it sounds.
“Some crazy woman who’s been selling me hay for four years and never once shorted me on a load. That counts for something.”
“Does it?”
“It counts for coffee and a conversation. After that, we’ll see.”
I get out of the truck. My legs are stiff, my back aches. Everything hurts.
“Guest room’s got clean sheets,” Bree says as I follow her inside. “You can stay there tonight. Tomorrow we’ll figure out the cabin out back - it’s small, but it’s got a kitchen and a bathroom and it’s yours as long as you need it.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“You don’t want to know why?” I keep waiting for the price of it.
“I figure you’ll tell me when you’re ready. Or you won’t. Either way, the guest room’s got sheets.”
Her kitchen is warm and cluttered. She settles James into a high chair and starts making coffee with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times on no sleep.
“Sit,” she says, pointing at the table. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”
I sit.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
“I don’t remember.”
“That’s not a good answer.” She doesn’t turn from the counter.
“It’s been a long night for keeping track of meals.”
“There’s bread in the box. Peanut butter in the cabinet. Make yourself a sandwich while I finish this.”
“I’m not hungry.” My stomach says otherwise.
“I didn’t ask if you were hungry. I said make yourself a sandwich.”
“Bree-”
“You showed up at my house at four in the morning looking like death warmed over. The least you can do is eat something so I don’t have to explain to the sheriff why there’s a corpse in my kitchen.” There’s the ghost of a smile in it.
“That’s dramatic.”
“I’m a dramatic person. It’s part of my charm.”
I make a sandwich. I don’t taste it, but I eat it. James watches me from his high chair with suspicious eyes.
“He doesn’t like strangers,” Bree says, setting two mugs of coffee on the table.
“Smart kid.”
“Too smart. He figured out the baby gate last week. I had to install a second lock.”
“Rosie do the same thing?” I wrap both hands around the mug.
“Rosie climbed over it. Then she taught herself how to unlock the front door. By the time she was two, I’d basically given up on containment and switched to supervised chaos.”
“Where is she now?”
“Asleep. Thank God. If she finds out we have company before breakfast, she’ll never let you leave.” She says it like a warning and a comfort at once.
“Would that be bad?”
“It would be exhausting. She’s got opinions about everything and she shares all of them.”
“Wonder where she gets that from.”
“Her father. Obviously.” Bree sits down across from me. “So. You want to tell me what’s going on, or you want to sit here and pretend you’re fine?”
“I’m not pretending I’m fine.”
“Good. Because you’re not fine. You’re about as far from fine as a person can get while still being upright.”
“Thanks for the assessment.” The coffee is too hot. I drink it anyway.
“You’re welcome. Now talk.”
“I don’t know where to start.”
“Start anywhere - the middle, the end. It doesn’t matter.” She waits, patient in a way that makes it easier.
“My husband had a going-away party tonight. In our barn.”
“I saw the video.”
“Of course you did.” Everyone did. That’s the whole problem.
“It’s everywhere, Lo. I’m sorry.”
“His manager announced she was pregnant. Said it was his.”
“I saw that part too.” Her jaw tightens.
“I had a test in my hand. I was going to tell him myself.”
“And instead you told the whole town.”
“I said ‘congratulations, you got both of us pregnant’ and put it on the table next to his beer.” I can still see his face, the blank of it.
“That’s one way to handle it.”
“It wasn’t a plan. It just happened.”
“Best things usually do.” She says it dry.
“This wasn’t the best thing. This was the worst thing.”
“Was it? Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like you finally stopped pretending everything was okay.”
“Everything was never okay. I just kept hoping it would get better.” Admitting it costs more than I expected.
“How long have you been hoping?”
“A year. Maybe longer.”
“That’s a long time to hope.” No judgment in it, just weight.
“I know.”
“What happened before tonight? The stuff that made you drive two hundred miles in the middle of the night instead of just going to bed?” She leans in on her elbows.
“He cut my birthday call short for soundcheck. He forgot our anniversary. He took off his ring because his manager told him to.”
“What?”
“She said it was better for his image. More accessible. Whatever that means.” I hear myself parroting words I hate.
“It means single.”
“I know what it means.”
“Did you tell him that?” She’s not letting me skate past it.
“I told him everything. I told him Sloane made me uncomfortable. I told him she looked at him like she already had him. He laughed at me.”
“He laughed?”
“Said I was tired. Said I was seeing things. Said it was a Nashville thing.” Three excuses. I counted them at the time.
“What the hell is a Nashville thing?”
“I have no idea. But apparently it covers managers who walk into your kitchen and move your fruit bowl and call you ‘the livestock handler.’”
“She called you what?” Bree sets her mug down hard.
“The livestock handler. In my own house. In front of the crew.”
“And Jesse didn’t say anything?”
“Jesse was on the phone with the label. Jesse’s always on the phone with the label.” The always tastes bitter.
“Jesus, Lo.”
“There’s more. There’s a letter. In my pocket. No stamp, no return address. Someone’s been watching me.”
“Watching you how?” Her whole face changes at that.
“They know which window is my bedroom. They know what route I ride in the morning. They know what color my truck is.”
“Did you tell Jesse?”
“Why would I? He doesn’t believe anything else I tell him.”
Bree is quiet for a long moment. James has fallen asleep in his high chair, head tilted at an angle that can’t be comfortable.
Bree folds her hands on the table.
“I don’t have a map for you, Lo. I have a room and work you know how to do. We can start there.”
“What if I can’t manage it?”
“You got yourself out of that barn and all the way to my porch with a stalker letter in your pocket and a baby in your belly. You can do whatever you have to do.” She says it like she’s already decided for both of us.
“I don’t even know where to start.”
“Start here. In the cabin. With work that doesn’t require thinking and time that doesn’t require explaining.”
“You’re offering me a job?” Something in my chest loosens half a notch.
“I’m offering you a chance to breathe. The job comes with it.”
“What kind of work?”
“Horses, mostly. Feeding, grooming, exercising. Rafael handles the training, but he could use help with the maintenance.” Practical, concrete, things I can hold onto.
“I can do that.”
“I know you can. That’s why I’m offering.”
“What about rent? For the cabin?” I need there to be a catch. There isn’t.
“We’ll figure it out. After you’ve had some sleep and some food and at least twenty-four hours to remember what it feels like to be a person.” She stands. “But none of that gets settled at four in the morning. Sleep first. The cabin and the horses will still be there when you wake up.”
“Bree-”
“I did this once myself. Not this exactly, but close enough to know the shape of it. You don’t have to explain yourself to me - not for at least a month. That’s the rule.” She says it plainly, like it’s nothing.
“What rule?”
“The one I just made up. One month of no questions, no justifications, no having to make sense of anything. After that, we’ll talk.”
“That’s very generous.” My throat goes tight.
“It’s very practical. I need help, you need a place. Seems like we can solve each other’s problems.”
“And if it doesn’t work out?”
“Then it doesn’t work out. But it’s not going to get worse than it already is, right?” She almost smiles.
“I guess not.”
“Then we’ve got nothing to lose. Come on. I’ll show you the guest room.”
The guest room is small and clean: a twin bed with a quilt that looks handmade, a window that faces the barn. Down the hall I can hear Bree settling James back into his crib, the soft murmur of a lullaby.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m going to work you hard once you’re settled.”
“I want to work. I need to work.” It’s the truest thing I’ve said all night.
“I know. That’s why I’m letting you stay.”
She leaves. I sit on the bed. I take out my phone.
Seventeen missed calls. Forty-three text messages. One from Ruth Cooper.
I call her back.
“Lo.” She answers on the first ring. “Oh, honey. Are you okay?”
“Not really.”
“I saw the video. The whole thing.”
“I know.” I press the phone hard against my ear.
“I could kill him. My own son. I could absolutely kill him.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? He deserves it. Standing there like a fool while you - while that woman-” She can’t finish it either.
“Ruth.”
“I want to come. Tell me where you are. I’ll get in the car right now.”
“I can’t.” Even saying it hurts.
“Lo-”
“I need space. I need time to figure out what I’m doing.”
“You don’t have to figure it out alone.” Her voice cracks on alone.
“I know. But I need to try.”
“Where are you?”
“I’d rather not say.” I owe her more than that, and I can’t give it.
“Is it safe? Are you somewhere safe?”
“Yes. I drove about two hundred miles. I’m with someone I trust.”
The line is quiet. I can hear Ruth breathing. Holding back.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Okay. I won’t ask where you are.”
“Thank you.”
“But I need you to know something. Are you listening?”
“I’m listening.” I sit up on the edge of the bed.
“You’re my daughter. Not my daughter-in-law. My daughter. Whatever he did, whatever happened between you two, that doesn’t change.”
“Ruth-”
“It will never change. Do you understand? You could divorce him tomorrow and you’d still be my daughter.” I have to cover my mouth.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“Neither do I. But I know this: I’ll be wherever you tell me to be, the second you tell me. Day or night. No questions.”
“That’s what Bree said.” Two women I barely counted on, both here.
“Then Bree’s a smart woman. Who is she?”
“The person I’m staying with. She’s helping me.”
“Good. Let her help. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”
“Ruth, I-” My voice breaks. I can’t help it. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to know right now. You just have to get through today.”
“And then what?”
“Then you get through tomorrow. And the day after that. One at a time.” She’s done this. I can hear it.
“What if I can’t?”
“You can. You’re the strongest woman I know, Lorilee Cooper.”
“I don’t feel strong.” The admission is small and true.
“Nobody does. Not when it matters. Strength isn’t a feeling. It’s a choice.”
“What if I make the wrong choices?”
“Then you make different ones. That’s how it works.” She makes it sound survivable.
“That sounds too simple.”
“It’s not simple at all. It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do. But you can do it. I know you can.”
“How do you know?” I need her to have a reason.
“Because you ran that ranch alone for a year while my son was off playing rock star. Because you stood in that barn and told the truth when it would have been easier to lie. Because you got in that truck and kept going instead of giving up.”
“I thought about giving up.”
“Everyone thinks about giving up. The ones who don’t are lying.” She says it without flinching.
“Did you ever think about giving up? When your husband died?”
“Every single day. For months. And then one morning I woke up and I didn’t think about it anymore.”
“How long did that take?” I already dread the answer.
“A year. Maybe longer. Time moves differently when you’re grieving.”
“I’m not grieving.”
“Aren’t you?”
I don’t have an answer for that.
“Call me when you’re ready,” Ruth says. “Day or night. Doesn’t matter.”
“Okay.”
“I love you, Lo.”
“I love you too.”
I hang up. I turn off the phone. I lie down on the bed and cry until there’s nothing left.
Sleep comes in fragments. At some point I must say his name, because I wake to the sound of my own voice, Jesse’s name still on my lips, and the house is quiet around me.
***
The sun wakes me.
Rosie is outside the guest room when I open the door.
“You’re the lady who came in the night.”
“That’s me.”
“Mama says you’re staying for a while.” She says it like it’s already settled.
“I guess I am.”
“Good. We needed more people. Come on - Mama made breakfast.”
I let her drag me to the kitchen. Bree is at the stove. A woman I don’t know is at the table with a tablet.
“Lo, this is Molly. She helps with the horses.”
“Nice to meet you.” Molly looks up. “Um. You should probably see this.”
She turns the tablet toward me.
JESSE COOPER CANCELS REMAINING TOUR DATES. NO STATEMENT FROM SINGER OR MANAGEMENT.
“Turn it off.”
“Lo-”
“Turn it off.”
Molly turns it off.