“But eventually we’ll, you know, separate the sheep from the goats and maybe some of you lot will be, er,cleareron what you want to say and how you want to say it.” I checked my zipper one more time. And then realized that I’d just touched myself in front of a room full of people at least five times in as many minutes.
I couldn’t move.
What had Lakshmi said?“Breathe, just breathe, Armand.”Oh god, they all must think I’m a pervert.
My vision went blurry for a moment, but I clutched the podium and once again succeeded in not falling over.Get a grip, said Lakshmi’s voice in my head,you arecapable of human interaction.
“Errm, so that’s, er ... Any questions?”
July 17th
Lucas Barclay had seemed excited to get the text I sent him this morning confirming that yes, I would love to visit his weird dying-horses farm and also could he possibly come pick me up? I didn’t start my summer classes until later that day, and Matt’s lack of response to my GIF was hanging over my head. I needed something to distract me.
Which, for the moment, was the gigantic black eyes of an arthritic horse who could probably see into my soul.
“So, to be clear,” I said, glancing over to Lucas, “you actually get up on one of these guys? Like on their backs? Ten feet in the air?”
He laughed. “Well, most of them not so much—with a few exceptions, like Dakota and Jupiter and Nala over there.” He pointed to each horse in their assigned stall. “Our mission here is education for the kiddos and end-of-life care for the horses. A lot of these guys were brought to us from people who couldn’t take care of them anymore.” He rubbed the enormous side of the horse I’d been introduced to. “They don’t have anyone else.”
Just like the Prescotts had adopted me.Didn’t think I’d be identifying with a dying horse today, but I guess that’s where life has taken me.
“If you’re comfortable ...” Lucas said, holding up an expensive-looking camera, “a short photo op?” He shot me a bright grin. “I promise I won’t make you get on a horse yet.”
“In that case, I’m down.”
He instructed me where to stand and how to hold the lead. The nice thing about all these horses being as ... vintage as they were, was that I didn’t have to worry about trying to keep them still. This particular elder—Lillybud?—seemed content to chill out here in the pasture, her head gently bumping against mine.
I’d thought I’d be distracted by Lucas circling us and snapping away, but my attention drifted to the acres of grass rippling in the breeze. We were still in the city limits, but somehow this ranch felt isolated and calm. It made sense that Lucas and his mom would open a horse retirement home here. There was such a stillness that didn’t exist back home.
I wasn’t sure how long I stood there next to Lillybud, both of us just vibing while Lucas did his thing, but finally he walked closer, grinning and holding out his camera.
“You’re a natural,” he said, angling the screen so I could see the shots he’d taken. “Your face’ll make fantastic press.”
The photos were really good. There was even a lens flare situation happening that I had no idea how he’d accomplished. “Ah yes, me, the enviable young face of horsepice care.”
Lucas gaped at me. “Oh my god.Horsepicecare. I love it, but donotlet my mother hear you say that or she’ll threaten to rename this place, and we’ll have to completely rebrand.”
A voice chimed in from behind us. “Don’t let your mother hear what?”
We turned to see a petite woman who shockingly resembled Lucas holding out a tray with lemonade glasses on it. She gave me a friendly and intimidatingly immaculate smile. “Are you Skyler? You look like a Skyler.”
Lucas handled the introductions. “Mom, this is, in fact, Skyler Evans, whose talent I discovered at a bakery, let it be known. Skyler, my mother, Cheyenne Barclay, matriarch of the ranch. But don’t worry, she’s harmless.”
I’d done some hasty research after meeting with Lucas at the cafe. The Barclay family had been wealthy for generations, dating back to a great-grandparent who had apparently patented a popular brand of canned beef that was still mass produced and sold almost exclusively to poor college kids.
Barclay Beef. Like all the best food, it was disgusting but alsodelicious.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Barclay,” I said, extending my hand to her. “It’s been a really rough last few days, and Lucas has been so nice.”
“Nice?MyLucas? Can’t be, he’s a bitch.”
Lucas, clearly not offended in the slightest, grinned brightly. “Like my mummy.”
Cheyenne ignored her son and grasped my hand. Hard. “A pleasure, Skyler Evans. But call me Cheyenne, because I’m a young, fun mom.”
Beside me, Lucas snort-coughed.
“So Skyler,” Cheyenne continued, as chipper and friendly as Lucas, “have you had much experience with horses before?”
