4. Solomon
FOUR
SOLOMON
“Don’t touch the radio,” Emery says for the hundredth time since we got in the car. Jason, predictably, ignores her.
“I can’t stand this emo shit, Em,” he complains, reaching between the front seats to jab at the touch screen. His sister smacks his hands away.
“I’m driving, I pick the music.”
Jay huffs loudly and collapses back into the bench seat behind us. “You’re such a child,” Em mutters.
I ignore them, watching the blur of scenery outside. We’ve left the urban sprawl behind us in exchange for the rolling hills, dry rugged vistas, and sparse vegetation past Santa Clarita.
I love this drive. I love watching the world change outside my window, the properties becoming fewer and farther between, the colors changing to more muted sage greens and tans.
I love knowing that the bigger the sky feels, the closer I am to my destination.
By the time we reach my grandfather’s place in the rural hills near Acton, Los Angeles will feel a million miles away.
“You doing okay?” Emery asks, her voice practiced and even. She’s trying too hard to sound casual, the way she does when she doesn’t want to let on that she’s worried about me.
“Doing fine, Em.”
I can tell she wants to push more and I’m relieved when she drops it, instead.
It hasn’t been the easiest thirty-six hours for me.
It never is, when I freak out the way I did at that damn frat party on Friday.
I didn’t leave my apartment at all yesterday, and the only reason Em and Jay managed to get me out this morning is because my grandfather is expecting me and the last thing I want to do is worry him.
Just thinking about that party has my palms sweating.
There’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to be back in my apartment now, where it’s quiet and still.
Where I can shut the curtains and turn the lights low and get lost in something—schoolwork, a LEGO set, binge-watching baseball games.
Where I don’t have to feel the heat of Emery’s furtive gaze on the side of my face or feel the worried tension Jay can’t quite mask with his usual goofiness.
But isolating like that, as tempting as it is, rarely works out for the best. The further I sink into myself, the harder it is to climb back out again.
And I’ve worked too damn hard to let this school year get derailed before it even begins—especially not over something as inconsequential as a stained shirt.
It hadn’t felt inconsequential at the time, though.
I have to fight off a shudder as I think of the sticky feel of my punch-soaked shirt clinging to my skin.
The way my body suddenly felt all wrong—skin too tight, nerves too raw.
Things that had been mildly annoying just a few minutes before—the crowd, the noise—suddenly felt unbearable.
My brain had been painfully aware of the people around us, how much closer they all felt the longer I stood there.
How the volume of the party seemed to ramp up ten-fold.
Cecelia Ransome’s dark blue eyes, staring at me so intently, filled with worry and confusion.
And maybe a little judgement.
I take a deep breath and hold it, counting to five and then ten, fifteen, before finally releasing it. She wasn’t judging you, I tell myself, for the hundredth time since that night. And it wouldn’t matter if she was. She doesn’t even know who you are.
That doesn’t really make me feel any better.
Turning my attention back to the window, I see the Brecken family ranch up ahead and some of the tension eases out of me. We’re almost there.
“What do you think Red is making for lunch?” Jay asks from the back seat. I shoot Em a smile as she rolls her eyes. It doesn’t matter that Jay ate a huge breakfast less than two hours ago—the guy is constantly thinking about food.
“I think he said something about carnitas,” Em says, signaling before passing a slow-moving tractor. Yeah, we’re definitely getting close now. Feed stores and pick-up trucks have long-since replaced the crush of the city and the sprawl of the suburbs.
“Fuck yeah,” Jay groans. “Sol, your grandpa makes the best carnitas.”
“He makes the best everything,” I agree. My grandfather employs a housekeeper, Mae, and she does most of the cooking for the ranch hands that keep the place going. But he likes to cook for us himself when he has the time, and he’s damn good at it.
Just thinking about the ranch where the three of us spent so much of our adolescence is making me feel calmer.
“Thanks for dragging me out today,” I tell Em in an undertone, and she snorts.
“Are you kidding? Red would have killed us if we showed up without you.” She shoots me a quick smirk. “And, you know, I guess we like your company okay.”
“You adore my company and you know it,” I say in my driest voice, and the Miller siblings laugh.
A few minutes later, Em parks on the side of the long, graveled driveway, just outside the main house. I look up at the familiar facade and I swear I can feel my blood pressure lower. This place has always had that effect on me.
I sit in the passenger seat for a moment, letting the calm wash over me. Jay is far more impatient, already out of the car and greeting Red’s three dogs as they bark and jump around him.
“You ready?” Em asks and I give her a small smile as I nod.
Red is waiting on the front porch by the time we climb out of the car. There’s a grin on his tanned, weather-creased face, and I know if he removed his aviator sunglasses, I’d be able to see the happy sparkle in his blue eyes even from here.
Jay is the first to reach the porch. “Hey, old man,” he says, pulling my grandpa in for a hug. “Tell me lunch is almost ready.”
Red laughs and shoves him away. “Mae put a fruit and veggie tray out,” he tells him, snorting when Jay makes a face. “You could do with something healthy, kid. I know how you eat.”
“Hasn’t had a bite of food that wasn’t fried or breaded since the last time we were here,” Em agrees, moving in to hug Red.
“There’s my girl,” he says happily, kissing the top of her head.
Then it’s my turn. Red doesn’t hug me but he does reach out and clamp a hand on my shoulder, the pressure firm and pleasant, grounding me. “Hey, son. It’s good to see you.”
I force myself to meet my grandfather’s eye, not always the easiest thing for me at such close quarters, though his sunglasses help a little. “Good to see you, too.” I grip his shoulder in return, patting twice, and his grin grows.
“Let’s get in the house,” he says, turning to the door. “I could use a cold beer in this heat.”
“Red,” Jay gasps in mock-shock. “Are you seriously offering alcohol to innocent and impressionable youths?”
My grandpa shoves him as he passes into the house. “Boy, you haven’t been innocent in at least a decade.”
The three of us groan as soon as we pass over the threshold. “That smells amazing,” Em says. “Please tell me it’s ready.”
“It’s not even noon,” Red says, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “You can wait an hour.”
He leads us out to the covered back porch, which provides a fantastic view of the ranch stretched out before us. Familiar dusty, sunbaked swaths of land, weathered out-buildings, and horse paddocks are all framed by the rolling tan hills in the distance.
Red hands out beers from a cooler by the door and we all collapse into the weather-worn but still comfortable rocking chairs, the dogs settling at our feet.
I sit in silence while the three of them catch up, taking in the familiar view before me, allowing it to soothe the remnants of agitation I’ve been carrying around all weekend.
Coming here had been the right choice. But then, it almost always is.
My parents sent me to the ranch every summer from the time I was a toddler until I turned fifteen.
That was the year they finally stopped bothering to pretend they wanted me around the rest of the time and decided I should just stay here.
It’s no coincidence that my last three years of high school had been the most peaceful time of my childhood or adolescence.
I’d been tempted to stay here after graduation and commute to the closest community college, but Red wouldn’t hear of it.
And with Em and Jay choosing the university in LA, it’d been an easier choice than I expected.
Still terrifying, for so many reasons, but doable.
And having the ranch close enough to visit every weekend if I wanted helped.
Red nudges my foot with the side of his dusty boot, signaling me back to the conversation. “How’d last week go for you? You meet with your advisor?” he asks, and I can feel his eyes studying my face behind his aviators. I force myself not to shift with discomfort.
I don’t really like being looked at like that. Can’t help but feel like the person is studying me for flaws. But this is Red. And he’s the safest person I know.
“The meeting went pretty good,” I tell him. It’s a struggle to keep my fingers from shredding the label of my beer bottle, to block the urge to fidget. “We talked about my clinical rotation. This semester will be pretty different from the last three years.”
Though starting my fourth year technically makes me a senior, I’m enrolled in a five-year master’s program—an accelerated course of study designed for students to earn both a bachelor’s in kinesiology and master’s in athletic training in five years, instead of the usual six.
This semester starts the beginning of a much more hands-on type of education than I’m used to.
“Have you gotten your assignment for the clinicals yet?” he asks.
I shift in my seat before I can force myself to still. Red notices, I’m sure. He always notices.
“We get assignments next week,” I tell him, careful to keep my voice steady.
It’s stupid, trying this hard to look unaffected. Every person on this porch knows how nervous I am.
“It will be fine,” Em says. “You’re gonna do great.”
“Totally,” Jay agrees. “You got this.”