Matt:NO I HAVENT SHUT UP
Matt:hi skyler im here too, unlike you
Matt:bon voyage and sayonara I guess
And then there were my brother’s private texts, sent from earlier today when I’d been deep in crappy wi-fi land. Each one sent an all-too-familiar roll of nausea through me.
Matt:text me when you get there so I know you’re alive
Matt:You really didn’t need to go out of state if you didn’t want to hang out with me for college ok
Matt:just say you hate me, rip it off like a band-aid
My stomach clenched, and I struggled for a reply. Finally, like a coward, I sent a GIF to the group chat to let them know I was alive, but that was it.
The sun had set, and what little of my remaining energy had sunk with it. I decided to pass on a shower and simply lose consciousness. Maybe when I woke up, all my decisions would make sense.
July 16th
The mystery roommate was nowhere to be seen in the morning. It would likely be too presumptuous to text him using the number the leasing office had provided me in our paperwork, so I scribbled a note on a piece of stationery and stuck it to the fridge.
Since thisArmand Demetrioperson was still asleep—at seven o’clock, what, was he going to just waste the day away?—or out of the house, I figured I might as well drive over to work and see Mom. She’d insisted I could take the day off on account of the jetlag—I’d reminded her that Vancouver and California were in the same time zone, but this hadn’t seemed to deter her—but Darren hadn’t texted back yet, so it was far preferable to keep busy.
And I missed the horses.
The End is Neigh Senior Horse Sanctuary was a sight for sore eyes as I pulled up to the ranch at the edge of my mother’s property. Truly amazing how the smell of hay and horse poop took me back to childhood in a hot second. I headed toward the stables, carefully avoiding a fresh pile of said poop. Several of the horses were out and about, likely providing a gentle petting session for a group of summer-camp children, but there was one horse in particular who I wanted to see.
In the stall at the end was Milkshake, the old geezer himself. We had started calling our favorite French TrotterGrandpaMilkshake when he turned thirty, and the name had stuck. He was resting, unnervingly still, his sickly body hunched in on itself in the corner. His once vibrant black coat had long since faded into a softer gray and had thinned considerably: a far cry from the thick gloss of his racing days.
“Hey, buddy,” I said, unlatching the stall door and gently stroking his side. “How you holding up? Did they take you for a walk yet?”
It wouldn’t hurt for him to take another one—one of the most important things we liked to tell our ranch hands was that for older horses, daily exercise was an essential element of care. I led Grandpa Milkshake at his slow pace outside to a corner of the arena not occupied by the gaggle of visiting children.
We’d just done some longeing when—
“I thought I told you to take the day off.”
Cheyenne Barclay, founder of The End is Neigh herself, had made her way down from the family estate in a full face of makeup in order to welcome me home. Her blonde hair glinted in the afternoon sun.
“Yes, and I ignored you,” I said with a grin, letting Grandpa Milkshake rest as I pulled her into a hug.
She squeezed me tight around the middle. “How was the wedding? I wish I could’ve made it. I hope everyone wasn’t too disappointed.”
“Mother dear, they were positively bereft. You should be ashamed of yourself,” I joked. “No, it was gorgeous—Marla looked amazing, Uncle Peter says hi, Sofi and Stefi made a scene at the reception, but what else is new.”
Mom cackled. “I hope you got pictures.”
“Oh, I certainly did. I’ll send them to you.AfterI put them up on FotoBom.”
She patted Grandpa Milkshake’s nose, surreptitiously checking his breathing. “And you’re all set up in your new place? I really hope you’re not living with an axe murderer.”
It wasn’t like I could dispute the idea. The day was still young. “I haven’t met him yet—the housing office gave me his name and, like, thebareminimum of info. Here—” I pulled out my phone, where the webpage I had found earlier was still open. A quick google search ofArmand Demetriohad brought up a link to the Drawn & Quartered Comic Convention happening in August. The only photo they’d provided was a low-res, blurry piece of business that told me practically nothing about this guy. There was a mop of dark hair and a vaguely spooked expression, but the rest was pixels. “Look at this.” I handed her my phone. “Look at the state of this photo—what did they even shoot this with, a potato? None of the other photos are like this. Can he not be captured on camera or something?”
Mom studied the photo thoughtfully. “Maybe you’re rooming with Mothman.”
“I wish I didn’thaveto room with Mothman.” I sighed. “I’m glad I found a place at the last minute, but ...”
“But you wanted to move in with Darren,” she finished with a tight smile—the kind that, much like Rick and Andie did, she always wore when talking and Having Opinions about my relationship. “Sweetie, listen, you know how I feel about Darren. I’m happy you’re happy, but—”
