9. Emerson
Emerson
My chest caves under the weight of my emotions. I can’t fucking breathe.
Air. I need air.
Rolling down the windows, I take in a deep breath of the crisp valley air I desperately need. Once I’m free of the Cole’s ranch, I pull over to the side of the road and step out to collect myself. Folding my hands on top of my head, I pace back and forth in the dirt.
Come on Em, you’re stronger than this. Push it back, hold it in like you always do.
Dread fills my body, my legs beginning to feel like lead as I try to drag them forward.
I knew coming back home was going to trigger all the emotions I’ve been trying to keep a tight leash on, but the one thing I didn’t figure on was adding Henley into the equation.
Dust swirls around me as I pause to shove my face into my palms. My words muddle between the sweaty flesh as I reach out for advice from the one person I need most. “Mama, what am I supposed to do now? How do I fix this? How do I do this without you?”
The silence consumes me. Another reminder of the absence of a piece of my soul. Clenching my fingers into fists beside me, I release a roar of frustration. The cattle grazing on the other side of the fence startle, and their disgruntled moos temporarily ease the sorrow.
“Sorry,” I apologize to the cow judging me in between chews of alfalfa. With a huff she dismisses me, returning to graze.
Wiping away the moisture underneath my eyes, I get back into the BMW. As I pull back onto the empty road, “Chasing Cars” blares from the radio. My head swings softly back and forth at the irony. Out of all the songs in the world, of course this song would be playing right now.
The same song I had once listened to underneath a blanket of stars while trying to soothe Henley’s broken heart. The same night I’d begun to look at her as more than just my best friend’s little sister. The first time I dared to cross the line.
Fate has a cruel sense of humor.
Time blurs as I lose myself in the song of my past. Only the familiar sign swaying over the entryway to my family’s land is enough to pull me back to the present.
The dark metal sign reading ‘Lane Family Ranch’ catches the early noon sun’s rays, reflecting the light into my eyes.
Temporarily blinded, I blink rapidly to regain focus as I drive through the gates of our family property.
The Lane family has come from generational wealth.
Great-grandfather bought this land with great-grandmother when they moved to Oakley Falls.
They invested a good portion of their wealth in building up the town as well.
Many of the buildings are still owned by our family today.
Lane Ranch was a working horse ranch for several years.
Great-grandfather passed it down to Pops, who ran it successfully, planning to pass it on to his only son, my Dad.
However, Pops realized quite early on that Preston Lane had an affinity for tinkering with cars. My father loved the horses, and life on the farm, but his true passion lay with mechanics.
Pops, being the wonderful man he was, wanted his son to follow his dreams and built Lane & Son automotive shop on the far end of the property.
When both my grandparents passed, we kept most of the horses, but the rest we gave to our family friends, the Coles.
Our ranch hadn’t been a working ranch for several years, until Mama got the idea a few years ago to turn it into a dude ranch.
It was no surprise she’d want to make that dream come true, and she always loved horses and being on the ranch.
That is actually how my parents met, right here on the Lane Family ranch.
Her family moved here from Georgia when her father was hired as our new head trainer.
Dad always says, the moment he saw her get out of her father’s truck for the first time, he knew she’d be the one for him.
As I pull up to our two-story home, trimmed with large gray stonework, unease prickles down my back.
Pushing myself to keep driving past, I stop once Mama’s final passion project pulls into view.
Twelve wooden cabins sit idle, about a football field distance away from the house.
I remember her insisting she didn’t want it to be too far away on our property so she could make sure she could be there quickly for all the guests whenever they needed her.
A heavy sigh tumbles out of me as I unclench my hands from the steering wheel.
I just wish we could have finished all the interiors before she passed.
Wish we could have seen her face light up when visitors filled each one of them.
Now everything just sits here, waiting for Dad and I to figure out what to do next.
Wildflowers bloom in front of each cabin, and white granite gravel forms a pathway to a large, covered pergola.
It houses an outdoor cooking area, and there is another commercial kitchen inside the larger event barn we built behind it.
Mama’s eyes would always go into a dreamy haze when she talked about all the events that could be held in these spaces.
Like the weddings, one of which she’d always hoped would be mine.
Stepping out of the car onto the pebbled path, I carefully walk through her dreamscape. The sting from earlier spreads to my chest, igniting like a million bolts of lightning across it.
The sweet, herbal scent of flowers stirs a memory so vivid I almost feel as if she’s here.
Mama was all bundled up and wheezing with mirth as she tried her best to give us instructions on how to plant her favorite wildflowers.
She ended up laughing more than teaching, as Dad and I bumbled our way through.
We made more of a mess than planting that day.
Though it’s such a happy memory, I can’t help the way it punctures through my already open wound. The one left torn wide when her tired body finally succumbed to the monster she valiantly fought for so many years.
Fuck cancer.
All at once, memory after memory assaults me, rendering me breathless. Gripping my chest, I stumble through the gravel until I reach the car. Once inside, I quickly throw it into reverse. Something’s wrong.
I’ve got to make it back to the house.
My heart thunders in my ears, overpowering the music playing in the background.
Spots cloud my vision by the time I finally arrive.
Slamming my foot on the brakes, the car halts with a screech.
Barely able to open the door, I leap out of the car and scramble to make it inside.
I only make it to the back of the car just as my muscles give out on me.
Everything feels heavy, and each time I try to move my muscles seize.
Hell, am I having a heart attack?
Faintly, I hear heavy footsteps making their way toward me. Strong arms pull up my hunched body, guiding me over to the flagstone entry way. “Son,” warm palms frame my face, forcing me to stare directly into my Dad’s reddened eyes.
“Dad,” I heave. “I think I’m having a—”
“Shhh,” He pulls me into his chest, and my body convulses underneath his arms. Steadily rubbing circles over my back, he speaks low, “Ride this curve, son. It may look like there is no end in sight but keep holding on. Around that bend you’ll see the light, I promise.”
With a shallow breath, I hold onto his familiar words, letting them guide me through the chaos of my mind.
Dad and I have always shared a love for cars.
It’s how I started on this journey of racing.
He’s been there for me, every step of the way.
‘Riding the curve’ started out as practical advice for the racetrack, but eventually turned into our mantra for all of life’s crooks and bends.
Like my first heartbreak in junior high, when Mary told everyone in our grade that I was a horrible kisser and I thought my life was over.
Ride the curve. When I got the call to move up to the big leagues and join the IMSA Porsche team in Texas.
Ride the curve. Or when Mama found out on her last yearly checkup that her cancer had returned for the third time. Ride the damn curve.
His palm glides in soothing motions over my back, while I struggle to take a breath.
When I squeeze my eyes shut, only hazel eyes flash through the darkness.
The bonfire blazes between us as she holds my gaze through her thick lashes.
The longer I hold on to the memory of Henley, the more the pressure in my chest begins to unlock.
My memory deepens. I can almost feel her grip the back of my shirt earlier, the way she’d held me close.
A time when everything felt comfortable, safe, right.
Replacing the difficult memories with all the good ones, I hold onto them with all I have. Praying that they carry me through.
Inch by inch, my breaths become deeper. More anchored. One last deep breath, and I open my eyes to meet Dad’s.
“That was one Hell of a panic attack,” he rasps. “This is what’s been keeping you away for so long, isn’t it?”
Shame grips me as I force a nod.
He releases a deep breath, and helps me sit upright on the steps. “Wanna go take the Porsche for a spin? I oiled her up and rotated the tires once you told me you’d be coming back. She’s all ready for you.”
“Yeah,” I say hoarsely. “I’d really love that.”
“Me too, son.”
Rolling down the window, I let the breeze sweep through my hair.
The strain in my chest feels lighter the closer we get to the auto shop.
Once we park, we make our way toward the back door, which leads to the track my Dad had built for me to practice on.
I started my racing career young with kart racing.
Dad decided to build a track that I could grow into.
It was large enough to accommodate full-size race cars.
That way, if I decided to race professionally when I grew up, the track could help me to build my technique and skill faster.
Whenever I’m home for breaks, I often come out here to drive.