Chapter 4
TOWNSHEND
JOEY
Eminenece Front by The Who
Ipull on my worn jeans and work boots, tying my hair back in a loose ponytail and fitting it through the hole in the back of my ball cap. The kitchen is quiet this early. I grab an apple from the bowl on the counter, polishing it against my shirt as I step outside.
The air hangs heavy with salt from the nearby Pacific, mingling with the earthy scent of horses and hay.
My boots kick up familiar dust as I cross the yard toward the barn, the path so worn I could walk it blindfolded.
A row of sunflowers stands sentinel along the pasture fence, their broad faces already turning to follow the morning light.
Inside the barn, the temperature drops ten degrees under the high ceiling. The new horse’s stall sits at the far end. An isolation protocol for new arrivals, especially ones as unpredictable as this one. His ears pin back the moment I approach, nostrils flaring in alarm.
“Easy,” I murmur, keeping my voice low and steady. “Just checking on you.”
He responds by kicking over his water bucket, the contents soaking into the stall bedding. Perfect. I grab the hose from the aisle, stretching it toward the stall, keeping my movements as slow and as non-threatening as I can.
“That’s quite the tantrum.” I keep my distance. He backs up to the far side, watching me, huffing through his nostrils as if that would deter me. “You’re pretty dramatic, aren’t you?”
His coat darkens where perspiration soaks through, not quite black but a stormy gray that darkens around his legs and muzzle. When he shifts, silver hairs scatter throughout his coat like frozen lightning in dark clouds.
His ears swivel forward, head lowering slightly to study me with suspicious interest. For the briefest moment, our eyes lock, and I feel it, that fragile thread of connection forming.
“You remind me of Pete Townshend. He used to smash perfectly good guitars for no reason.” I right the bucket and refill the water.
He stares at me stubbornly.
“Townshend it is, then.” I make a note on the chart. “Suits your dramatic personality.”
He stamps once, as if insulted by the assessment, while I place a scoop of morning breakfast consisting of oats, barley, corn and supplements into his feed container.
He doesn’t knock it over like he did the other morning.
After everyone’s had their breakfast, I turn out a couple of the horses in the pasture, clean up the stalls and check the feed inventory. A run to the feed store is needed.
The route to Parker’s winds along coastal cliffs, offering glimpses of blue that stretch forever.
Salt hangs heavy in the air, mingling with eucalyptus and sun-warmed asphalt.
The ocean sparkles below, white-tipped waves breaking against the shoreline in hypnotic rhythm.
On particularly clear days, I can sometimes spot the distant silhouette of Catalina Island on the horizon, but this morning’s slight marine haze keeps it hidden.
I pull into the parking lot of Parker’s Feed & Tack, the suspension protesting as I navigate around a particularly vicious pothole.
The bell jingles as I push through the door, my boots leaving dusty prints on the worn wooden floor.
“Joey Morgan.” Mr. Parker nods over his reading glasses. “Usual order’s already pulled. I can load it for you.”
“Thanks,” I say, heading toward the stockroom. “We’re low on joint supplement too.”
“Got it,” he says, heading into the back while I head toward the custom leather halters near the register, the ones on display for tourists and horse hobbyists. But I can’t help the pull of rhinestones. I’m a girl, what can I say.
Impractical and gaudy.
I trace the butter-soft leather of a bright pink halter with a brass nameplate anyway, the kind that costs more than a month’s worth of hay.
Reality hits like cold water. This is my life. While Maggie’s out documenting rock stars and living her dreams, I’m fantasizing about halters. I drop my hand and step away from the display.
The bell jingles again, and in walks Becca Edwards, with her long brown hair sporting purple streaks, and wearing a halter top with tiny denim shorts.
Despite being indoors, she’s wearing oversized designer sunglasses that hide half her face, and she stifles a yawn as she pushes them up onto her head.
Behind her, a tall girl with a buzz cut follows, keys jingling from a carabiner on the belt loop of her skinny jeans.
I try to turn away but I’m not quick enough.
“Joey Morgan? Oh my God, it is you!”
“Becca.” I plaster on a smile, trying to place when we last spoke. Junior year? Senior? We’d shared a few classes but occupied entirely different social circles, hers firmly planted in the drama department, mine nonexistent beyond Maggie.
“It’s been forever,” Becca gushes, gesturing to her companion. “You remember Zoe? We’re roommates at SDU. Isn’t that awesome?”
“Yeah.” I fake enthusiasm. “What brings you to the feed store?” I ask, desperate to make this encounter as short as possible.
Becca rolls her eyes dramatically, sweeping her hand through the air with theatrical flair. “My mom sent me on a thrilling quest for organic plant food. Something about her precious tomatoes needing special nutrients.” She holds up the bag. “Apparently the fancy garden center was closed.”
“Becca’s mom thinks we have nothing better to do than run her errands,” Zoe adds. She checks her phone for the third time in thirty seconds.
“God, it’s so early I can barely function,” Becca groans, massaging her temple. “But when Queen Mother commands, I obey. She’s paying my tuition, so…” She shrugs with exaggerated resignation. “Small price for freedom, I guess.”
I nod politely, already calculating how quickly I can load the truck and escape.
“So where’s Maggie?” Becca asks, glancing around as if my twin might be hiding behind a display of mineral blocks. “You two were attached at the hip in high school.”
“She’s on tour with Velvet Drift,” I say, trying to keep the note of abandonment out of my voice. “She’s documenting their summer tour for a film project.”
“God, you must be going through withdrawals,” Becca laughs. “You two couldn’t even go to separate classes without texting constantly.”
The comment stings more than it should. Was I really that co-dependent?
“That sounds like such an incredible opportunity,” Zoe says, suddenly animated, slipping her phone into her back pocket.
“Getting to follow a band on tour, capturing all those intimate moments most people never see. My cousin works sound at The Troubadour and says it’s a completely different world backstage. ”
“That’s so Maggie,” Becca says, admiration dripping from every word.
“Always doing the coolest things. Remember when she convinced everyone in our senior year to wear black armbands to protest the cancellation of the arts program, then got the local news to cover it? Principal Harrison practically begged the school board to reinstate funding.”
A reluctant laugh escapes me. “Yep, that’s Maggie.”
“God, she was always getting away with murder, while the rest of us followed the rules.” Becca’s eyes sparkle with nostalgia. “So what are you up to? Still doing that horse thing?”
“Yeah, actually we’ve expanded,” I say, surprising myself with the hint of pride in my voice. “We have volunteers now, and my mom’s filling out grant paperwork so we can get funding for…” I trail off, noticing Becca’s attention is now on her phone.
“That’s cool,” Zoe says, though her gaze has drifted toward the door. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Horses are… big.”
“So,” Becca leans in conspiratorially, “have you heard about this new band that’s been playing around? Silent Revenant? They’re completely mysterious, perform in these elaborate masks so no one knows who they are.”
“Masks?” I echo, my tone neutral despite a flicker of curiosity.
“It’s this whole artistic statement thing,” Zoe explains, suddenly animated.
Her hands gesture expressively as she speaks, all previous boredom evaporating.
“They’ve been playing underground venues around town.
People are losing their minds trying to figure out who they are.
It’s like the music hits differently when you can’t see their faces. ”
“The lead singer is insanely hot,” Becca adds, fanning herself dramatically. “Even with half his face covered. His voice is just… God, it does things to me. He could sing Wheels on the Bus and I’d swoon.”
“We’re going to see them tonight at The Hollow,” Zoe says. “It’ll be packed, but I know the door guy. You should come, it’ll be epic.”
A club isn’t really my scene, but then Maggie’s words come back to haunt me: one unpredictable thing.
“Sure,” I say before I can change my mind.
Becca’s face lights up as she grabs my phone, entering her number. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”
Zoe glances at her watch. “Becks, we need to drop this shit off and get going. We still have to go clothes shopping for tonight’s show.”
Becca is already backing toward the door. “Nice seeing you, Joey!” she calls over her shoulder. “I’ll text you the address. Doors open at ten!”
For a wild moment, I consider opening Maggie’s drawer, borrowing those artfully distressed jeans. And her red top that hangs in the closet, the one that barely covers her navel and scoops at the neck.
But I’m not Maggie, never will be.
Turning back to my own clothes, I pull out a pair of dark jeans that actually fit instead of purposely hanging off my hips.
A simple black tank top with a scooped neckline, modest but not prudish.
My favorite boots that Mom gave me for my nineteenth birthday.
A delicate gold necklace with a tiny horseshoe charm rests at the hollow of my neck.
The mirror shows someone I recognize. The clothes fit properly, complement my figure rather than disguise it. For once, I look intentional rather than incidental.
My phone buzzes with Becca’s response.
Becca: Meet you out front at 10. Dress to kill, girl!
I exhale slowly, that same mix of anxiety and excitement bubbling in my stomach. Is this dressing to kill? This will have to do. I probably won’t even last an hour there but at least I can say I went.
The pressure in my chest feels like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks, tense but exhilarating.
I glance once more at my reflection, recognizing something new in my eyes. Not Maggie’s reckless courage, but something quieter. My own kind of bravery.
I snatch up the car keys before heading out into the unknown.