Abandoning the bread, I twist and jam my knee into the cabinet beside me. Mom looks too at ease right now. Despite what feels a lot like an argument transpiring between us, she finally looks away and continues organizing the fridge. Her expression is cool, calm.
I tap my fingers to the countertop and stare athernow. “You’re too relaxed about this. We’re arguing.”
“Do you think you’re the only one who’s grown as a person while you’ve been gone? This isn’t an argument. It’s a healthy discussion between a mother and daughter.”
My features tug inward. “Have you been going to therapy or something?”
“You’re making it sound like I was some raging mother when you were growing up,” she teases.
“That’s not . . . I don’t mean it like that. You just seem different.”
“Yes, Tilly, you’re not the only one who’s found therapy helpful. I’ve gone quite a few times over the years. I had somethings I needed to get under control, and talking with someone about them has helped me quite a bit.”
I grow tense, already knowing the answer to the question I ask. “What things?”
She hesitates, pausing her fridge stocking. I can see her immediate answer flicker through her eyes before disappearing. She chews on another one, avoiding my eyes while she thinks. I’m still building up my defenses in preparation for her reply when she answers.
“I wasn’t expecting to only see my daughter twice in ten years. It was your father’s idea for me to see someone. We’ve gone together a few times too.”
My throat squeezes too tightly for me to speak, so I don’t. I busy myself with searching for two plates that I know don’t exist instead, and she doesn’t press the subject again. I’m grateful for that.
At least with this left untouched, it’s easier to pretend that I didn’t leave a trail of pain behind me when I left. Or that now I’m having to repair it before getting to where I want to be. For a bit longer, I can pretend everything is fine.
Lucky me.
13
TILLY
An hour later,Mom’s on the back of my borrowed horse. She clutches me tightly, her fists digging into my stomach as she grips onto the saddle horn for dear life. Her discomfort on the back of a horse isn’t anything new. She’s always been a chickenshit when it comes to them.
When I first started taking riding lessons, she would drop me off at the ranch and leave to do errands instead of staying like some of the other parents. I didn’t need her to linger, so it didn’t upset me at all that it freaked her out too much to watch me ride. Ash was worse at it than any of the other kids were, so he stopped coming after the first few classes. I think he was the reason Rowe wouldn’t stop pestering me while I was learning, though. He taught me more than the instructor did.
Painted Sky stopped offering lessons a few years after I started.
“I should just leave your father’s truck here for you. I’ll call him to pick me up when we’re done, and then you won’t need to ride this thing around all the time,” she rambles, jerking a hand back to grip me.
I wince at the pressure. “Did you forget that my entire job revolves around horses? Not riding one won’t help me avoid them.”
“You could have been anything in the entire world,” she says, exasperated.
“And I chose grooming. Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying that you could have picked something safer. Horses are wild regardless of how trained they are.”
“Yet I trust them more than I do people.”
A beat of silence. “Fine. You win this round.”
“Next time you come here, I’ll make sure to get one of the cowboys to come back and grab you in a truck.”
“No, you won’t. I can handle this. This horse is nice, at least. Calm.”
“Yeah, she’s alright.”
Her hands aren’t digging in so deep now. “What’s her name?”
“I’ve got no idea.”
