Chapter 7
Spending more time with Parker goes as well as I expect.
It’s been several days since Tabitha metaphorically chained us together, and so far, she’s the only one happy about it.
On the other hand, Parker and I have barely exchanged more than a few words, despite being practically on top of each other for chunks of the day.
He gets so far under my skin that I hardly have time to dwell on how spectacularly my life has fallen apart, like a Jenga tower that will topple completely with one more wrong move.
I have to stay on my toes, prepared to meet him snark for snark so as not to let him one-up me.
It’s distracting, but it also means I haven’t had a chance to figure out how to ask Tabitha if I can extend my stay—or tell her why I need to.
Not that I’m upset about that second part.
I feel a little more guilty every day that I don’t tell her, but at least it’s time that Tabitha and I can just be … us.
“Hey! Watch it,” I snap at Parker, jumping sideways on my way back to the barn and narrowly avoiding a mud puddle when he comes barreling out the door with a wheelbarrow. “These are my good shoes and I’d like to keep them that way.”
He shakes his head but doesn’t stop what he’s doing. If there’s anything I’ve learned about him in the past few days, he stops for nothing. “You’re the one saying good shoes and barn in the same sentence, so that’s on you, Princess.”
“I have barn clothes, but my crappy shoes are in my other suitcase.” According to the grumpy lady at the bus company I spoke to last night, it is on its way back from Denver and won’t arrive for another day or two. The suitcase I managed to get off the bus contains mostly pajamas and toiletries.
I glare at him as he tips his wheelbarrow on the muck pile and steers it back to the barn, pausing beside me. “Crappy shoes,” he repeats slowly. “As opposed to…?”
“As opposed to these, which I’d like to be able to wear in public again.”
He shuts up, a smile working its way onto his lips.
“What?” I demand.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
That turns out to be a bald-faced lie. That afternoon, after lunch, my toes squished against something soft. I pull my foot out and tip the shoe, stunned as three mushy brown balls roll out. Smelly ones.
I storm towards the barn in nothing but my socks, ready to blow a gasket. I’m halfway to the barn when the large door slides open and Parker steps out.
“You put manure in my shoes?!” I shout, holding up the evidence.
He doesn’t slow down, continuing to his truck with the worst poker face I’ve ever seen.
“You said you wanted crappy shoes.” He lifts a hand towards my sneakers, still held aloft. “Your wish is my command, Princess.”
“What is your problem with me?” I demand.
“You mean other than the fact that you’re trying to get me fired?” he asks as he reaches his truck.
“I never said that!”
“You did, actually. You’ve also been watching me like a hawk. Do you think I don’t know that you’re looking for something to report back to Tibby?”
In one smooth motion, he hauls a large bag of feed from the back of his truck onto his shoulder in some sort of farmer’s/firefighter-carry and walks smoothly towards the barn without a backward glance. It should not look that easy, and yet it does, which makes it even worse.
“If I’ve been watching you—and I’m not saying I have—it’s because you insist on redoing almost everything I touch,” I say to the back of his head, trailing after him in the afternoon sunshine.
“Do it properly and I won’t have to.” He drops the bag at the door and returns to his truck for another.
I wish I could protest, but a tiny kernel of doubt roots itself deep in my brain and I can’t help but wonder …
“Am … am I actually doing things wrong?” I ask. “You’re not just messing with me?”
He slows to a stop, the bag of feed resting on his shoulder. His surprise is clear enough by how he answers, like he doesn’t relish telling me this. “You miss a few spots in the stalls. And … there’s a quick-release knot that’s safer to tie the hay bags with than the way you do it.”
“Oh.” I cross my arms, averting my gaze. Great. I have been making more work for him. So much for this being the one place I have my shit together.
“Are you cry—”
“No,” I lie, all but sprinting to the house.
I’m sprawled on the patchwork quilt in my room, clutching my phone while Lyla’s sympathetic, yet stern, face stares down at me from my phone screen.
After hosing off my ruined sneakers, I came straight here to FaceTime her after nearly breaking down in front of Parker, and as soon as she picked up, the dam burst. I promptly spilled everything: how I haven’t been able to motivate myself to do a lick of work, haven’t returned any calls from my parents, and, of course, that I still haven’t had the talk with Tabitha.
“Lyla, what am I doing here?”
“You’ve far exceeded your five-minute wallow and now you’re spiraling, that’s what.”
I sniff, trying to be quiet so Tabitha doesn’t come looking for me. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m just ignoring my problems, and worse, I’m infecting my favorite place in the world with my presence.”
“That’s not true,” she says firmly. “You’re just scared because you haven’t told her.”
“Of course I’m scared!” I whisper-hiss. “Tabitha’s always felt more like an older sister than an aunt, and now I’m about to tell her we’re not related at all? Oh, and by the way—I want to stay here for the next few months. Hope that’s cool.”
“Look, you don’t know how she’s going to react until you tell her. We need to put on our big girl pants and own up to how we feel.”
“We?” I hiccup, sitting up. “Wait … are you keeping something from Adam?”
“No, right—you. That’s what I meant,” she says quickly, her hand flapping in front of the camera.
“This isn’t about me. You wanted to go to Salem Stables to tell Tabitha the news in person.
It might feel like you’re escaping your problems, but you haven’t.
Now the only question is, what’s stopping you from telling her? ”
I let out a long exhale, wiping the tears from my cheeks. “The moment I got here, this sense of relief washed over me. It felt like when I came here for that whole summer in high school.”
“When your parents almost split up?”
I nod. “Back then, it was like nothing outside the farm even existed. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be so … content. All I want is to feel that way again, but no matter what I do or where I go, every move I make is the wrong one.”
Lyla sighs, and I can feel her shifting into big sister mode. “There’s nothing you can do about the things that are outside your control. But you can start making the right moves if you really want to. All you have to do is focus on the things within your control. Talk to Tabitha.”
My lip trembles, and I bite it, willing myself to pull it together because I am so sick of crying. “Is it even worth it? I don’t know if it’s just because of what I know, or if it’s because Parker’s here, but … it just feels like I’m getting in the way.”
Tabitha’s been busier than ever with the farmer’s market and hasn’t spent nearly enough time in the studio working because she’s spending the rest of her time with me.
Parker sure as hell doesn’t want me here, underfoot.
No matter the angle I look at it from, I’m the odd person out in this equation.
“Do you want to go home?”
“No.” My answer is so automatic that I know being here—even if it’s challenging—is the best thing for me.
“Then maybe you need to talk to him, too.”
That finally gets a laugh out of me. Talking to Parker seems about as likely as teaching Zeke to tap dance, but at least one of her suggestions seems possible.
If it means me staying, and possibly getting back to feeling like myself again, it’s worth at least trying.
So, after saying goodbye, I take a deep breath and head downstairs searching for Tabitha.
Going back to the barn at this point might be the textbook definition of masochism, but after finally sitting down with Tabitha and getting her enthusiastic permission to stay as long as I need to, the only thing left standing in my way of reaping the full benefits of Salem Stables is Parker.
That, and the burning need I have to prove him wrong.
He’s already called me lazy and criticized my work.
They say practice makes perfect, so I start showing up even earlier in the mornings for the next two days.
By the time he shows up to feed, I’m finished doing every stall twice to ensure I haven’t left so much as a single dirty shaving behind.
At least when it comes to ignoring each other, Parker and I seem to be on the same page.
There are no more blowups between us; it's just me quietly going about making him eat his words as I continue to show up for manual labor. The arrangement was working just fine until day three, by which time the blisters I’ve developed make it difficult not to yell out in pain every time I lift the pitchfork, the slightest contact resulting in searing pain.
I grit my way through it. They’ll heal eventually, and not letting Parker make a fool out of me is surprisingly strong motivation.
With the stalls clean, I start filling each one with fresh water, unclipping the bucket hanging from the wall and carrying it down the concrete aisle to dump outside.
Parker, annoyingly, can take two at once.
I’m barely managing one, trading it back and forth between my hands as I shuffle awkwardly towards the door.
I make it a few steps before I have to set it down, flapping my hands.
“Come with me.”
Crap. I’ve conjured him.
“Where did you come from?” I demand. “I didn’t spin around and say your name three times in front of a mirror in the dark.”