CHAPTER SEVEN
LIZ
After finishing every last bite of the food Jovi had delivered, and sucking down a bottle and a half of water, I wander into my living room where I come to a slow stop somewhere between the small sofa and the bookshelf near the door.
I take in the room, gaze landing on every item I own, taking account of my belongings like a stranger.
I may not be the one who died, but I can't escape the feeling that the person who lived here, who acquired all this crap, is dead too.
Well, that should make moving easier, right?
My macabre thoughts are rudely interrupted by the sound of my phone ding ding dinging in the palm of my hand. I peer down to see who’s disturbing my gloomy peace and quiet.
Of course, it's Holly. One of my models, and these days, my best friend.
The tip of my finger glides across my screen on repeat, scrolling up. I'm still trying to get to the first message when she calls.
“Why are you home? And why aren’t you answering my messages? Did you get my email?” she bombards me with her inquiries the second I answer. “Also, I sent flowers. Did you get my flowers?”
“Where did you send the flowers?” I start at the end and work my way back.
“The funeral home.”
“Well, as we’ve established, I’m back in my own home and not in the place where the dead come to pass through. So, no, I did not get your flowers, though I’m sure they were lovely.”
She makes a strange sound. Something between a snort of disgust and a strangled laugh.
“You know you can’t say shit like that to everyone, right?
Like, I’m cool. But don’t talk like this to other people who don’t know that death has left you dark and callous and still have the good sense to treat grief with respect and dignity. ”
“If you’re so concerned about the appropriate way to treat grief, why are you sending me work emails the day after my sister’s funeral?” I shoot back, trailing the tips of my fingers over the art I have framed on the wall, wondering why I once thought the colors had the power to brighten the room.
“It’s been two days. And the email wasn’t about work, you freak. I emailed you a long thread of condolence messages everyone posted on your work page, which I’m sure you haven’t checked but thought you should see.”
Two days. Holy shit. How long was I passed out after my shower? “Oh.”
“What about the other thing?” she asks when all I offer is a single syllable to keep my side of the conversation going. “The ‘why are you home?’ thing.”
Ah, yes. I guess now’s as good of a time as any to tell her. “I’m not.”
“Your phone says you are.” Some days I regret having agreed to let her track me like I’m a wild animal being studied for my migration habits.
“When you didn’t answer my messages, I thought someone robbed you, stole your phone and took over your apartment.
I was prepared to accept your body was lying in a ditch somewhere.
” The precise irrational fear that led me to letting her put that locate your friends crap on my phone to begin with.
“And you think I’m dark,” I remark dryly.
“I’m not dark. I’m paranoid. It’s totally different.”
“Well, allow me to help put to rest a ridiculous fear and instead fulfill a real one.” I like a smooth transition when I can get it.
Even if it’s not a pleasant one. “I’m moving.
This place is no longer home. Now it’s just the place I have all the stuff I need to pack up and take with me. To my new home. Far, far away.”
Holly goes silent.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes,” she says, “but clearly you have more to tell me.”
I twist my torso along the wall and lean back, resting my head against the artwork hanging there. “My sister appointed me the kids’ guardian. I’m moving home to Cedar Hill to raise my niece and nephew.”
“What about your business?” It’s not the response I was expecting, but one that tells me she’s not nearly as surprised by this news as I was.
“I mean, I probably won’t be able to book you as my regular for shoots anymore, but I plan to keep it going.
I have enough inventory for my stock subscription service to hold me over for a few months.
Hopefully by then I can create more content and establish myself enough to start bringing in new clients.
Though I may have to expand my services from boudoir to family portraits.
” Cedar Hill is a small town. If I can't count on a steady stream of new clients, I'll have to find ways to keep them coming back. Growing children look different from one year to the next. It shouldn’t be hard to sell parents on the idea of annual family portraits.
“You’re going to have time to keep up with your photography? To do your own shoots and book new clients?”
I start to say yes but pause before the word can cross my lips.
This is the first time that concern has whistled through my conscious mind.
Will I have time? Lena didn’t work. Well, she did.
But not outside of running their home and helping Trent with the ranch.
Am I crazy to think I can run my one-woman business in addition to being a fulltime single parent?
It’s irrelevant. I need the income. Regardless of whether or not Jovi can turn the business around to pay the mortgage and provide for the kids, I can’t depend on him. I won’t.
“If my sister had time to help her husband with the horse stuff, I’ll have time for my photography.”
I'm not oblivious to the fact I’m bound to encounter a learning curve playing inadequate fill-in mommy again after all these years—this time with twice the kids—but still, I can do it. I have to. The ranch is already floundering. Giving up my income isn’t an option.
“Good," she says, satisfied with my answer. “And maybe I won’t be your regular model anymore, but Cedar Hill is only a quick flight away. If you need me to come out a few times until you establish yourself, I’ll be there. I promise.”
I sigh with relief. Damn. There’s something I haven’t felt in a minute. “Thanks, Holls.”
“Wow.” I think maybe it all just hit her. “You’re leaving.”
“I’m leaving.”
It’s official.
Now all that’s left to do is pack.
JOVI
The contented peace which tends to linger in the air at feeding time is absent this morning. The barn feels strange. Restless, like the horses understand that Trent isn’t coming back. That I’m it from here on out.
“Thanks again for walking me through things this morning,” I tell Sam, the neighbor’s kid that’s been keeping things running since the accident. He’s maybe sixteen or seventeen, right around the age Trent was when he first told me he would have a place like this one day.
Watching Sam so easily fill his shoes it’s not hard to imagine he’s got the same dreams brewing in his own head. “I hope you won’t stop coming around now that I’m here to take over for Trent. I can tell the horses love you, and I may need another lesson or two from you.”
“I doubt that.” He shakes his head, chuckling as he reaches out to pat the horse curiously poking her head out of her stall to watch us.
Kimber. The paint mare Trent picked up at auction hoping to reel me back into this world even then.
“Trent told me all about how you two used to work horses together. Said you always went straight for the ones no one would bother with. The one’s people gave up on, deemed untrainable or too aggressive to handle. ”
I try to laugh, but it catches in my throat. “That wasn’t because I had skills. That was pure stupidity. Youthful ignorance always had me looking for ways to take chances and push the limits.” More than that, I was reckless. And not exclusively with horses.
“That’s not how Trent told it.” Sam runs his hand down the mare’s muzzle and steps back. “Anyway, I better get going. I won’t get to come back at all if I show up late to first period again.”
I wave him off as he hurries for the open doorway. “You’ll be back to check on me tonight?”
He laughs. “Yeah, sure.”
Then he rounds the corner and disappears. A minute later, I hear his truck start up, followed by the sound of his tires moving over the gravel as he heads down the long driveway and off to school.
Trent always said he was a good kid. I wonder if he knew just how right he was.
Now that it’s down to me and the horses, the nervous energy only expands.
“I know,” I tell Kimber, stepping toward her to crawl my fingers up her neck and under her black and white mane to scratch her hairline. “I wouldn’t have chosen me either.”
She snorts in response before tucking her head back inside her stall to resume her post breakfast munching on hay.
Judging by the quiet grinding and crunching of teeth mulling back and forth over dried alfalfa coming at me in surround sound, no one is ready to be turned out to pasture yet.
So, I take this opportunity to explore Trent’s old office.
I’ve been inside it countless times, but never once have I looked at the space the way I’m seeing it today.
For starters, it’s disgusting. I always knew Trent was a slob, but Jesus Christ, this place is nasty.
And that’s just based on what I can see at first glance.
Which includes seven abandoned coffee cups I’ve counted so far, a half-eaten Danish sitting on a pile of papers and a potted plant behind his desk he appears to have treated like a compost pale.
I’m guessing, based on the banana peel and apple core I can still make out in the dirt.
There is no question I will be dealing with a rodent problem upon moving in.
From here, the mess gets less time sensitive.
The man had papers everywhere. Contracts.
Bills. Vet records. Anything and everything ever written or printed or doodled on paper is on display somewhere in this space.
On the desk. On the shelves. On the two saddles brought in here to be repaired.
On the desk chair. On the small sofa. Oh, and fuck me, on the mini-fridge I’m only now discovering.