The giant fireball of a sun setting over Honeyhole Lake doesn’t even register. I’ve seen these gentle rolling hills all my life. Never felt the need to leave Oklahoma like my twin brother, Houston. But all I see tonight is rage and annoyance out my windshield.
Nelly whines and stops licking at the breeze long enough to give me a doleful look. He hates it when I’m in a tizzy, mostly because it doesn’t happen often. Quite frankly, it only happens when Shelby dates someone stupid. And they’ve all been stupid, every last one of them. I think my canine might have more discernment of a man’s character than Shelby.
“You think you can talk some sense into her, bud?” My thumb taps out a rhythm of irritation on the steering wheel.
Nelly’s ears perk up. Right before he slumps down to the passenger seat, defeat lining his posture. Even my dog knows there’s no talking sense into Shelby about men.
At the four-way stop where I’ll make my right to head to Big Ridge Ranch, our family’s operation for five generations, I have to wait for Mrs. Perkins, the elementary school librarian. She looked old back when I went through school, so she has to be positively ancient by now, as confirmed when she doesn’t see me try to wave her through the intersection. Instead, she creeps forward at a snail’s pace, sucking on her dentures and squinting her eyes at me. When she finally recognizes me, she slams on the brakes and causes her boat of a Buick to lurch back and forth before coming to a stop in the middle of the intersection.
“That you, Dallas? Or is that Houston?” she hollers through the rolled-down windows.
Nelly covers his eyes with his paws, a whine I wish only dogs could hear leaving his throat. I lean out my window and wave, knowing there’s nothing for it. The old people around here can’t be rushed. My mouth quirks to the side, thinking of how my own son, if he were with me right now, would make a wisecrack about me being part of the “old folk” now that I celebrated my fortieth birthday.
“Dallas, ma’am!” I holler back. “You seen Shelby today?”
Her eyebrows nearly hit her pure white hairline. “I ain’t seen her in a month of Sundays, but I seen that worthless boyfriend of hers!”
“Ex-boyfriend,” I answer back immediately, irritation about the whole situation rubbing like a tag on a new shirt.
Mrs. Perkins’s face scrunches up, her eyes and dentures disappearing in the many folds of aging skin. “What’s that now?”
“Ex-boyfriend,” I shout, then lower my voice as I realize shouting at an old lady is a new low for me. “Sorry to rush off, but I gotta get home to Ryder.”
Her face morphs into a sweet smile at the mention of my eight-year-old son. “Ah, Ryder. He’s a good boy, that one.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Despite the anger that fueled my afternoon, hearing praise regarding my son will always puff out my chest with pride. That boy is the one thing I’ve done right in the world.
Mrs. Perkins beams a little brighter like she always did when us kids remembered our manners. Then her Buick chugs out of the intersection as she waves out the window, leaving me room to cross. I don’t look back, and I don’t observe the speed limit as I race toward the ranch.
It’s not long before my truck bounces along the potholes that line our long driveway. My brothers and I keep meaning to fill the holes, but at this point, it wouldn’t feel like home if you didn’t have to test out your suspension to get there.
Pops and Ryder are on the wrap-around porch, wildly waving their arms in the air. I grimace, wondering how long Pops has been out in this heat placating Ryder. My son’s current obsession is swimming, despite showing very little aptitude for the competition of it all. There’s no telling what he’ll get his mind set on, but as long as he’s happy, I’m happy.
A plume of dust greets me as I brake a bit too fast and exit the truck. Nelly hops out and darts between my legs just to piss me off. I steady myself and follow him to the porch where I pull my sweaty son into my side and ruffle his sun-bleached hair. He’s quick to hug me back, his little boy scent reaching my nose.
“Hey, Dad! Wanna practice flip turns?”
I look over at my father in time to see him sink into an Adirondack chair and swipe a handkerchief across his brow. A sweating glass of sweet tea sits on the small table beside the chair.
“I can give it a go for a few minutes before supper,” I answer, knowing it’ll give Pops a reprieve. I mutter out the side of my mouth to Pops, “You know, you can say no to him.”
He smiles despite the exhaustion, pausing to take a long drink of iced tea before answering me. “I can, but I never will.”
I copy the moves Ryder makes, pretending we’re in water. Nelly barks his fool head off, thinking we’re playing some fun game. I’ve had this same argument with Pops for years. He’s been watching Ryder a few days a month since he was born. Every time I worry about Pops getting overworked for his age, he brushes me off and says he’ll never tell his only grandson no.
It’s sweet. But I also fear it’ll give him a heart attack one day.
I open my mouth to ask the same question I’ve been asking all afternoon, but Pops beats me to it, holding up a thick, scarred finger.
“She ain’t been by, and you ain’t gonna stick your nose in her business.” He lifts an eyebrow, reminding me of all those times growing up when we thought we’d gotten away with something, and somehow Pops always knew.
And just like all those times, I slide right into an innocent expression that no one’s buying. “I wasn’t going to stick my nose in it. I was going to offer my support to my best friend.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Incoming!” Ryder hollers, drawing my attention back to the corner where he’s gearing up to “swim” the length of the porch after an impressive flip turn. Goddamn, that boy is cute. His skinny arms become a blur of motion, and he looks pretty ridiculous.
Speaking of ridiculous, one of Meemaw’s Silkie chickens launches itself off the porch railing and into the face of my son as he swims by. Ryder screeches, Nelly barks, and my boots pound out an SOS as I race over to the fray.
