I startle while I’m combing my fingers through my still-damp hair, a screech cutting through the air.
“Stormy, no!”
I’m on the side of the farmhouse, and I run for the porch. It sounds more like Stormy’s causing trouble rather than in peril herself.
“Let! Him! Go!”
Darcy and I have been doing our twice daily horse walks for about a week now. In the mornings, she serves me terrible coffee and we sit on the steps and talk. There’s a perfectly good porch swing, but for whatever reason, we each have our spots on the steps. It’s cozy. I look forward to it, watching the sun rise and coming into the day with somebody. Then in the evenings, we have ice cream in those same spots, always mint chocolate chip, sometimes scooped into a cone.
I have friends at school, sure, but I don’t get this time with them where we sit and do nothing, just sipping coffee. My roommate Stephen would have been the best candidate for such a thing, and he generally wanted very little to do with me.
So during our morning sip dates, Darcy and I have been watching a mama bird feed a nest full of peeping little beaks.
Stormy has one of those peeping beaks pinned to the porch floor while Darcy tries to free it. She’s cussing up a blue streak and Stormy does not appear to be moved.
Darcy grabs Stormy by the scruff and pulls at her lower jaw. The bird scrambles away, but since it’s just a fledgling, it can’t fly to safety. I slip on my work gloves and scoop it up. I examine it, and other than being traumatized and having a small puncture wound, it looks fine.
I hitch my boot up on the porch railing to put the bird back in the nest at the top of the porch column. Poor little thing doesn’t even have feathers yet, its skin still translucent. I have no clue whether it stands a chance, but this is the best I can do. “There you go. Be free. Good luck.”
Darcy opens the screen door and plops Stormy inside with an angry, “You’re grounded!”
She’s so mad that I wouldn’t be surprised if cartoon steam started pouring out of her ears. She crosses her arms so hard it almost makes a noise. “I swear, it’s like she isn’t civilized.”
I stifle a laugh, but a little snort sneaks out. Darcy points at me. “Don’t you start with me, Jake Warren.”
She pinches her lips together, eying me so fiercely it could kill. I hold my hands up. “I didn’t do anything! But . . . you do let her catch barn mice.”
She growls and turns her nose up, but two seconds later, a reluctant giggle slips from her. “Shut up.”
“She’s an animal, boss. It’s just nature.”
“I said shut up!” she whines, giving me a shove as we head for the barn. She peeks up at the clouds. “Hope Cane doesn’t give us hell over the storm. Radar shows it passing by, but he still might get freaked out.”
“He’ll be good for me,” I say, and she snaps to look at me. We part to go into each stall, me into Cane’s and her into Freckle’s. When we emerge leading the horses, she speaks again.
“Awfully confident there, cowboy. You try riding him again lately?”
I glare at her. “Rub it in.”
“I thought you could tame any beast,” she teases. “You could train Stormy to barrel race if she could hold up your weight.”
I chuckle. “Been a long time since I’ve done that.”
Darcy studies me. “Why’d you stop?”
“Racing?” Sweat starts to form. It’s probably going to show on my pits.
“Yeah.”
Gravel crunches under our shoes. We walk in our usual formation: me on the far left, Cane, Darcy, Freckle on the right. Darcy’s still in her work wear: a ball cap, jeans, a t-shirt, and boots. I’ve got sneakers, soft shorts, and a tee on since I showered and changed. It must have been a minute since I said anything because she peers at me from under the brim of her hat.
I flick a glance her way. “We, uh, I—We sold my horse after my dad died. I didn’t really ride after we lost him. My younger sister, Jackie, still rode. Did really well, actually. Jamie, my older sister, she was already in college, so it made sense to sell her horse too.”
“Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry, Jake.”
She doesn’t ask for more details, but I trust Darcy. I don’t think she wants me to shut up, or doesn’t care about me. Instead of editing myself into a more palatable, grief-free version of myself, I let her see some of the pain. “We needed the money, and it was messing me up. I kinda threw myself into baseball. And that paid off too. Made lifelong friends on my college team. But I feel bad that I didn’t even go to watch Jackie ride after Dad was gone.”
Darcy hums. “Makes sense, though. It was too hard for you. Everybody grieves differently.”
