I'm getting the fuck out of Sierra Grande, and I'm not going to tell a goddamn soul where I'm going.
26
Jo
Sometimes I think people,me included, keep their heads down and their eyes focused on what's in their direct field of vision. Then something makes them lift their gaze, maybe a problem or an idea, and they are amazed by what they see when they widen their lens.
This is me right now.
Clutching my pencil and trusty notebook, I've been walking from room to room in the big house, noting everything that needs to be repaired but doesn't really fall under the job of a contractor. The list is titledHandyman. And it is lo-ong.
Standing in the middle of the living room, now open to the dining room thanks to Wyatt and his sledgehammer, I lift my eyes from my list. My sigh sticks in my throat when my gaze settles on the view outside the large window.
Wide open space. The outbuildings framed, like a skeleton awaiting muscle and skin. No workers here today, it's Sunday. Quiet. The view from Wildflower, from this window, steals my breath.
It's mine.
And the bank's.
And Sawyer Bennett's.
But also,mine.
I've been looking down for so long during this entire process, my gaze focused on plans and worries and money and problems. Until now, I haven't taken the time to look up and see what I've accomplished here.
I hope it helps people. I hope it heals and repairs families. I hope it takes a bad feeling and makes it good.
My phone rings when I'm tucking the notebook into my purse. My stomach sinks when I look at the name of the caller.Mom.
"Hello?" I answer, not making even the smallest effort to hide my reluctance.
"We need to talk about Travis."
Shit.No greeting. No easing into the conversation with a perfunctory and meaninglessHow are you?.
I toss my purse on the floor and sink down onto the same overturned crate I sat on the night of the storm when Wyatt and I danced. "What happened?"
"Your brother happened." I picture her hands, fisted on her hips, vein on her forehead popping.
"I think you mean your son," I remind her tightly. "What happened?"
"Travis threw a party when I stayed at Henri's farm last weekend." Mom sighs into the phone. "My house is trashed. This is the thanks I get for all I've done for him." Her voice increases in volume, until it sounds more like a screech. "I gave him a phone. I gave him freedom. He comes and goes as he pleases. Is he thankful? Nope. This isn't the boy I raised. I don't know who this ungrateful child is, but he's not mine."
My blood simmers with the anger that has begun pulsing through me. I remember when she said words like this to me, standing over me in that ankle-length skirt and high-necked shirt, her long hair plaited and wound into a bun. She called me a whore, and told me I ruined her good standing in the community. When I told her it was her fault for not explaining to me what sex is, she slapped me across the face. If I think about it long enough, I can still feel the sting of her hand.
"You need to calm down, Mom. Take a deep breath and—"
"I'm sending him to military school."
The air whooshes out of me, as if her words are a punch to my stomach. "What? No."
"He needs to be straightened out."
"Military school?" I ask in amazement and horror. "No, Mom."
"I can't take care of him anymore." She doesn't even sound sad. Just matter of fact.
"I'm coming to get him." The words are out of my mouth before I have a chance to really consider them.
