I’m the best I’ve ever been. Ranching isn’t difficult work, not even close to being down in the mines. It’s hard on my body, a lot of physical labor, but I’m out in the sunshine, as free as I’ve ever been earthside. That’s enough for me right now.
I like Starling a lot. She’s the silent type. We hang out all day, and sometimes, I sit in her stall at night when the house gets too dark. There’s a nightlight overhead that stays on until the sun comes up. At first, I just sit with her. Then, I bring a blanket with me and end up falling asleep with my back against the wall. When I wake up, she’s watching the early sunrise, head hanging out the back window. I don’t think she minds me crashing in her stall, and I appreciate that.
I head up to the ranch house on my day off to see Freya. It’s afternoon, right when Slate, her newborn son’s, naptime hits. I hesitate, feeling like I need to knock but also not sure because she’s my sister, which makes me family. Finally, I decide to open the door, knock, and yell down the hall.
“Come in! I’m at the kitchen table,” she calls.
I shut the door, head down the hall, and turn left into the kitchen. Freya sits at the table, her sketchbook and watercolors spread out around her. She’s in a big sweater—Deacon must run pretty hot, because the house is always cold as fucking ice downstairs—and her hair is piled up on her head, like she used to wear it back home. I noticed she keeps it down more often, now that she’s with Deacon.
“You want something to drink?” she asks, looking up.
I stand in the doorway, taking in the scene before me—the comfortable house, the kitchen that smells of food, all her things scattered here and there, dried flowers on the windowsill, paintings taped to the fridge. This is how Freya was meant to be. Relaxed, in her element, not cowering in the shadows, hoping not to be noticed.
“I’ll make a coffee,” I say.
“Let me get it,” she says.
I give her a firm look. “I’m not made of glass, Frey.”
She bites her cheek, frowning. Her eyes follow me as I grab a k-cup and pop it into the machine, hitting the button. The scent of coffee floats up with the steam. I turn, pushing my hands in my pockets, and lean on the counter.
“How’re you feeling?” she asks.
“I’m really fine,” I say.
She nods, still frowning. “I just worry.”
“I’m good. I’m clean. And sticking to it, and the new job.”
She gives me a soft smile. The coffee machine beeps. I take my cup and sink down at the table, leaning in to look over the open sketchbook. Freya is incredibly talented at drawing those hyper complex scientific drawings. Right now, there’s a two page spread of a bunch of different moths, halfway painted, each part labeled.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“I’m making a field guide…for the moths I remember from my collection,” she says.
“From Kentucky?”
She nods, staring down at the pages. I look too, a soft hollowness opening in my chest. Her collection, the one she’d started as a little girl, was destroyed by Aiden in a fit of anger. Deacon’s given her all the tools to start a new one, done a good job trying to fix all that hurt, but that won’t erase it. It’s going to take time for her to heal, as it has with me.
I want to say I’m sorry again, but after so many emails from rehab, she made me promise to stop apologizing.
I glance up, and she’s giving me a stern look, lips pursed.
“Don’t start,” she says.
“I won’t. But I want to.”
She sniffs then clears her throat. “I got you something.”
“Oh yeah?” I lean back.
She gets up, going to the desk in the back corner of the kitchen. From it, she takes a strip of rolled leather and puts it on the table in front of me. Right away, I know what it is; I had one back in Kentucky, before the mines.
“A wood carving kit,” I say.
All the days we spent as kids, sitting on the porch while I carved animals and birds from wood, sit heavy on our minds. After the accident, I had trouble focusing, but I was able to do a little bit of carving. Otherwise, I think I stared into the woods for several years straight because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking when I made a fist. I unwrap the leather, revealing a set of wood and metal tools. Brand new, no memories attached.
“Thanks,” I say, voice hoarse.
