Twenty-one
TWENTY-ONE
Tag
“ T ag?” Bea’s voice called from somewhere in the barnyard.
“In the garage!” I called back.
All things considered, things were going fine. After dinner last night, I went back out and worked till about ten thirty. The days were long, but I could get through alright until Jesse got back, assuming nothing terrible happened.
I had just finished mucking stalls and was doing some quick maintenance under the Ranger. Pretty easy fix, turned out. Good thing, because my mechanical knowledge was limited to routine maintenance and basics.
A few long moments passed before Bea’s light footsteps entered. My upper body was under the truck. I turned my head, glancing out. Got an eyeful of Bea’s legs, which looked unnaturally long given our current angle. Her makeshift shorts were riding up a bit. She looked down at me. Her round eyes sad, missing their usual cheer. To my dismay, they looked a little red. A little glassy.
Was she crying?
She quickly turned away, blocking my view of her face. “I brought you some food. ”
Her tone caused a flash of dread to zip through my midsection.
Life hadn’t given me many opportunities with women. To say I hadn’t quite figured them out would be an understatement. My experience revolved solely around family and a few failed dates my cousin, Randi, arranged and forced on me when we were still in highschool.
To have an upset woman in my vicinity was a brand new world. I didn’t know what to do. Was it polite to ask her if she was alright? Or was it best to ignore and pretend not to see?
Like an insensitive boar, I informed her. “I don’t typically eat during the day.”
“Oh.”
An awkward beat of silence passed. She cleared her throat, her voice gathering a little strength. “I talked to the warranty company.”
I wriggled out and slowly sat up, nicking the corner of my forehead with the front bumper. “Bad news?”
She nodded. “The warranty wasn’t registered. They sent the application, but it wasn’t filled out and returned.”
I’d been mentally preparing myself for the worst. The verdict didn’t surprise me in the slightest. I sighed. “Sounds like something I’d do.”
“You’ve got a lot on your shoulders. I’m sure paperwork isn’t really on your mind very much.”
I imagined her reaction to my files and wondered what she must think of me. “That obvious?”
A tiny smile pulled at her cheeks then vanished. “A little.”
“Thanks for tryin’.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news.”
“It’s alright. My mechanic is coming out later today.”
She backed toward the open garage doors, not looking directly at me. All weekend she’d been bubbly, happy, and never tense. Even with all the ways I’d messed things up. A thumping began in my chest. Something was definitely wrong. I wanted to ask if she was alright, but felt like I shouldn’t.
Memories of our letters—some of the hard ones—barreled into my mind. “Sorry the ink keeps smearing. That’s the fourth tear I’ve dabbed off the page. ”
Several of her letters were delivered to me, pages puckered and words blurred. I always wondered who held her when she cried. I’d imagined what I would do if I ever had to see tears on her face and hear emotion in her throat.
Paper felt so inadequate in those times.
And I was a lot more courageous back then. Or at least my imagination was courageous.
Let her walk away.
She glanced down. “Do any of your animals like sandwiches? I’d hate to waste it.”
I wiped my hands on a shop towel. “Uh, no. I don’t feed them stuff like that.”
She nodded, a soft blush rising into her cheeks.
Everything I said was coming out all wrong. I shook my head at myself, allowing my gaze to drop to the food. The plate had a sandwich sliced diagonally, sliced apples, and potato chips. Her soft hands gripped the rim of the plate, and her shoes scuffed the concrete slab below us. Something I couldn’t name pulled at my heart, the sensation painful and terrifying, a flame under my pulse.
Bea was trying to be nice, and I was being an ass. I probably made her feel dumb. I’d spent too much time with horses and cowboys and, apparently, didn’t know how to act around folks with decent manners.
Or maybe I just didn’t know how to act around her.
Before Bea, the last person to make me a meal was Randi. And I hadn’t seen her in almost four years. I shopped alone, prepped food alone, ate alone—which was why I avoided those activities until my humanity necessitated them. When I did need food, I ate on the run.
Before I realized what I was doing, I reached out, taking the plate. “That actually looks pretty good.”
She swiveled away, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear. “Is there anything else I can do to help you? I feel bad sitting around.”
“You’ve done nothin’ but help me since the moment you got here. I wouldn’t call that sittin’ around.”
I picked up the sandwich and took a big bite for her sake. I fought off a groan as I chewed then lifted the bread to see what was inside. How did a turkey sandwich taste so good?
She sidled toward the door. “Okay, well call me if you?—”
Conflict warred in me.
Let her go or make her stay?
“Bea.” I wasn’t even sold on what I wanted to say.
Go or stay?
“Hmm?” She stopped but kept her eyes averted.
It tumbled out. No warning. Just rolled off my tongue before I could backpedal. “Sit with me while I eat.”
She blinked in surprise.
“It’s only gonna take me a few minutes.”
After a brief hesitation, she eased onto the rolling stool, immediately launching into a side-to-side swivel. I would’ve paid my last dollar to know what she was thinking.
Heat rose up my neck as I pondered the possibilities too long. What specifically had I shared with her in our letters? Time obscured the details. If I had to guess, I most likely shared way too much. Because any time I sat down to write—regardless of what or who I was writing—I went overboard. It all tumbled out in the most painful, raw way.
Had I told her my Mom never made us meals? That we were hungry most of the time? Is that why Bea brought the sandwich? Did she pity me? Did I seem hungry or helpless? I felt unnaturally exposed, childlike even, sitting there with her only a few feet away.
Despite the feelings roiling through me, I was glad she stayed. Glad I wasn’t sitting here alone. I tried to focus on something other than the erratic beating in my chest. But the only other thing my brain snagged on was her. She had her hands clasped between her knees, her ankles and toes working to rhythmically turn the chair, left to right and circling back again. Dutifully, she waited for me to finish my lunch.
My social skills weren’t great, sure, but I’d have to be a blind idiot not to see her discomfort. It was written in her movements, the crease between her brows, and the way she chewed her bottom lip.
The sight of her like this shredded my insides. The conflict warred, violent and loud, within me. On the one hand, I’d be insensitive not to check in on her. On the other hand, would asking her for openness require my own?
I was intimately acquainted with the feeling of being ignored. Of having needs but no one caring. Of craving others but being pushed away. Of wanting connection despite taboo pains. Even as I argued within myself, trying to convince my brain she’d be fine, my conscience pulled toward her.
I mentally cussed my cowardice as I ventured onto new territory.
Even the tone of my voice sounded like a foal on new knees. A wobbly, gentle prod. “Are you alright?”
She looked at me again, and we held a beat of eye contact. Her brown eyes filled with tears faster than she could glance away. I sucked a breath as my stomach dropped. Like the earth had just opened up to swallow me.
Holy shit.
Confirmed right then and there. She was not alright.
My pulse jumped for the moon, my adrenaline for the stars. I’d never wanted a sandwich less than I did in that moment. But I took an anxious bite, waiting for her answer.
She swiped a palm across her cheek. “Sorry. I can't seem to stop.”
I kept quiet.
“Life is kind of cruel sometimes, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” I knew a thing or two about that. My voice didn’t sound like my own. “If you wanna talk, I’ll listen.”
She worked her bottom lip with her teeth for a few moments before responding. “I’m very honest and like to talk. You shouldn’t ask questions unless you truly want answers.”
I almost smiled at that. I didn’t expect anything less. Our hayloft meeting, short as it was, painted a pretty accurate picture of who she turned out to be—uninhibited, heart on her sleeve, blunt, chatty, and nosy as hell.
“I know.” Inwardly, I cringed at the words of familiarity.
“I guess some things don’t change.” She huffed a laugh. “How much time do you have?”
I lifted my few remaining bites. “About sixty seconds. ”
“How generous.” Her tone was flat.
In hindsight, I realized a gentleman would’ve said as much as you need or something equally accommodating.
But she took it in stride. “Do you remember my brother Peter?”
As if I could forget. I’d had plenty of practice masking my real feelings and redirecting gut reactions. So I was able to take another bite even though the food instantly soured in my stomach.
Was he alive? Surely.
I read her words about Peter over and over, wishing somehow I could be there for her. Forcing myself to read her pain felt like the only thing I could do to help carry the burden. Many times, I almost gave her my cell number and invited her to call me. I wanted to do more for her than stare at a page. But I knew talking voice-to-voice was a doorway, and once we walked through, we’d never go back to letters. “I remember.”
“He’s having health complications again.”
He’s alive. The relief I felt surprised me with its strength.
“Not relapse.” I hoped.
“No. Thank God. He’s been there, done that. Peter relapsed when he was nineteen but he’s been in remission ever since. The other night he had a seizure, and honestly? I’m angry for him and his fiancée, Sarah. They’ve been through way more than the average couple, and they aren’t even married yet. Now, on top of every other health problem in his life, he has to navigate seizures. Even if he doesn’t have another one, the fear is enough.”
I nodded.
“I feel like I’m always waiting on bad news with him. He’s this strong outdoorsy guy and has a beautiful life, but we all worry it’s a house of cards. And with his wedding only weeks away…he’s discouraged.”
The last two words pulled the emotions back into her throat. “I think that’s what I hate the most. His dark days. I wish I could take them.”
Finished with my lunch, I sat, quietly listening.
“What’s going on with Peter shouldn’t affect me, but I have a decision to make regarding—” She stopped, waving her hand. “ Nevermind that’s a whole other thing.” She eyed my plate. “I think I’m out of seconds.”
“I’ll give you”—I squinted up at the ceiling, thinking—“nine hundred if you’re all good with me layin’ beneath the truck while you talk.”
“Nine hundred seconds?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
A bigger smile pressed in like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud. The unease in my chest loosened a notch. She lifted her brows. “That was fast math.”
I swiped my hands over my jeans, grabbed a socket I needed off the workbench, and scooted back under the jacked-up Ranger again. “I’m makin’ a little noise down here, so talk up.”
“Okay.”
But she didn’t say anything. I glanced to the side to see her toes tapping, restless. Did she change her mind about wanting to talk? Thoroughly invested in her previous story, I jogged her memory about where she left off. “You said you gotta make a decision.”
“Right.” She paused then gave an awkward laugh. “I feel embarrassed to tell you all this for some reason.”
I lifted the socket to the bolt and cranked it in slow motion, not willing to drown out whatever she decided to share.
“I’ve never had an actual job. Isn’t that crazy? My music has been my sole income since I was sixteen. I’ve always had dedicated fans and when I release new albums I get a good return on my investment and make enough to live comfortably. But all of that has changed, and I can’t figure out why. When I sit down to write new songs, nothing works. It’s awful. My songwriting has been a dry well for almost two years now.”
Bea burned a CD for me when she was fourteen. Even then, she was talented. Her songs were beautiful and soulful.
“So on Thursday, I met with an agent and got a record deal. An offer, anyway. If I take the offer, I won’t have to write my own songs anymore, and I’ll make a livable income. But they’ll change who I am as an artist. Then I’ll have to do tours and travel. And here’s the real kicker—my headquarters would be in Nashville . ”
“I stayed in Nashville for a few months. It’s not too bad.”
“I was just there last week. It’s nothing personal against Nashville. I’m sure it’s fine, but being halfway across the country…being away from my family…there’s nothing I love more than them.” She sighed.
The worry echoing in her sigh was deeper than this story would ever capture. I looked to the side again and watched the white toes of her shoes swipe back and forth over the dirty floor. I had the urge to touch her ankle. Wasn’t sure why.
“You’re thinkin’ of Peter.”
“Exactly. Maybe I shouldn’t. It’s not like he’s going to need me. He has Sarah now…it’s just…I don’t know. I can’t even put into words how I feel about it. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity. Part of me thinks I should suck it up, sign the contract, and do it for a few years.
“But I was advised to take some time away and recuperate from burnout before making a decision. So that’s why you’re stuck with me at the moment. I had planned to only stay a week, but the price was right.” A soft humorless laugh came from her.
She came here . To Meadowbrook. Why?
A moment of silence overtook us as I considered all she’d said. I placed the tools on the concrete and tucked my hands behind my head, stretching out and getting comfortable. Might as well. I wasn’t doing anything anyway.
“I’m okay. Just frustrated in my inability to make this decision. And I miss…” Her words trailed off. Pretty sure she choked up. I waited, unwilling to even breathe.
I waited for a few moments. “Miss what?”
“The music. Feeling connected to it.”
“You don’t anymore?”
She cleared her throat. “The last couple years, when I play, I feel like I’m performing. I hardly remember what it feels like to touch the strings and just…get lost. Music has always been more than songs and notes. It’s a piece of my soul.” Her voice broke. “I know how dramatic that sounds, but I’m being totally real. Closing my eyes and letting the music carry me away…it’s like an unburdening. I walk away from those moments whole and at peace. And I haven’t felt that in a really long time. I wish I knew why. ”
She’d held up a mirror, poking awake a reality in my own life. I could almost smell new paper and the sweet ink smudged against the side of my hand. Could almost hear the crackle of a new spine and the scritch-scritch of dry lead on the page. Could almost feel the phantom ache in my knuckles after a good long unburdening.
But I’d never miss it enough to go back. Every damn thing I worked night and day to chase away caught up with me on paper.
She sniffled. “I got way deeper than I intended. Sorry.”
“We’ve both been guilty of that a time or two.”
Legs, feet, and chair stopped moving. She froze.
I swiped the sweat off my forehead, bumping my elbow on the bowels of the truck. Why did I say that? Tempting us down memory lane was not a smart move.
Because I was a lonely desperate kid, I overshared with my penpal. It felt like Bea knew everything about me. That she’d heard it all and chosen to stay. I’d fooled myself into believing someone could.
Only paper knew me. And I’d do well to remember that.
When I first met Bea in the hayloft, she was magnetic. She was curious, bursting with questions, and it was obvious she cared about me. Not because she knew me, but because I was human. Seems basic enough, but it wasn’t. Her concern and willingness to sit with me sucked me in faster than anything else could have.
My family made sure they weren’t with me.
As much as I’d loved my Granny, she didn’t do right by Cooper and I. It took years for me to admit the truth to myself. She existed in denial about many things. She had two daughters, three grandchildren. Gran would rather bury her head in the sand than rock the boat. Cooper, Randi, me. We all suffered. We needed someone to speak up for us, but no one would.
I’d often wondered if Grandpa would’ve been the same way if he was still alive.
When CPS contacted Gran, she took us in but treated us like ranch hands. Not grandchildren. Not kids who needed help. Sure, she put food on our plates and sort of kept us out of trouble. But it wasn’t enough.
I felt seen in Bea’s letters—a lot more than a person would think .
Bea had been able to weasel information out of me. I shared with her more freely than any person in my entire thirty years of living. She handed me a lifeline in my ocean of pain. Hers were the only words I craved more than my own.
The crazy part was she hadn’t changed at all. She was the exact same in real life. Curious and magnetic. The way she rattled off thoughts sounded like her letters. Her thought patterns and the way she flowed from one topic to the next was as familiar to me as the back of my left hand. It made me wonder if she’d spoken her letters and the pages caught her words somehow. Her speaking voice was her writing voice.
The bubbly handwriting suddenly had a face, a beautiful name, a bright smile, a contagious laugh. Those were things I never wanted to know about her. Things I was better off not knowing. What we had in our letters couldn’t translate into real, present-day life. But I wouldn’t deny that I wished it could.
The draw toward her was there.
But if I encouraged her to open up, she would want me to open up too, and then what would I say? Where would I even start? The last time I talked about myself, I was a couple drinks away from blacking out and I swore I’d never dredge it all up again.
And I wouldn’t. Not for Bea. Not for anyone.
An all too familiar churning in my gut made my face drain. A cool sensation swept over my ears, and sounds momentarily waned. A soft, tingly feeling spread to my fingertips. I dropped the socket and stared at the bottom of the truck.
My breathing shallowed. I couldn’t even think about my past without darkness nipping at my heels. I was always one step away from being consumed, from surrendering.
There was so much inside me. Too much for any person to willingly take on.
“Hello? Tag?” My awareness honed in on her voice as I swam back up from the deep.
Air filled my lungs.
“Did you fall asleep down there?” Her hands flattened on the concrete and she crouched low enough to look beneath and see me. Her bun flopped toward the ground with gravity.
My hand fumbled for the socket, grasping the warm metal, and lifted it up into the truck in order to look busy, only for it to thump down on my chest, slipping right out of my clammy hands.
She looked me up and down, blinking. “You okay? You were in la-la land there for a sec.”
“Yeah. Guess I was.”
“I’m gonna go. I know you’re swamped.”
Don’t.
I didn’t want her to go, but I didn’t want her to stay. What on earth was wrong with me?
I rasped, “Alright.”
“Call me if I can do anything though, seriously.”
I nodded and flashed her a thumbs up.
As her footsteps receded from the garage, I kicked myself. I should’ve invited her to help me with the riding schedule again. What harm could come from that?