It takes us a few minutes to arrive, though it’s not far. He offered to bring us around on his horse, a cutie named Cookie, but I told him I’m too scared. I’m not scared of horses, but I don’t think I should be on top of one so quickly after labor. The thought doesn’t make mefeel good. It’s another kick that goes straight to the heart, and I try not to feel as defeated as I feel.
He tugs me along until we reach the porch, gesturing for me to take a seat on the steps, which I promptly do. My legs constantly burn from walking everywhere, and I wasn’t used to that before. I lived a very pampered city life before coming to Wilde Ranch, and despite everything, Major’s mood included, I don’t hate that I’m here. Having something to do every day makes me feel better and keeps my head away from the fact that my arms are so damn empty without my daughter.
I think about Mirasol constantly. I cry with her name on my tongue, cursing every deity I know, but none of my tears will bring my child back. If it weren’t for Jesse knocking on my door, ready to feed me and bring me around to the animals, I wouldn’t be here. My eyebrows furrow as the thought forms in my head. Being this sad made me accept the fact that my grandfather shipped me here not to deal with me anymore, but I never took in what a blessing this was.
“Sit down, take a moment, and let me play you a song.”
He sits on the other side of the steps, fingers strumming the guitar. It’s such a beautiful tune that it brings tears to my eyes. When they fall, he stops, a worried expression taking over.
“No, please, keep going,” I say as I wipe the tears from my cheeks.
“Are you sure?” he asks, but starts again. “I never knew I was so bad I’d make people cry from listening to me.”
An ugly laugh bubbles on top of my crying. I know I’m a fucking mess, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His fingers are back strumming, and something in the melody fixes my bleeding heart. I rest my head on the wooden beam behind me, taking a deep breath. Jesse’s music might be the right type of therapy. The song melts the cold numbnessthat took over, and unlocks the pain I left tight inside. I cry more, and he lets me, and for the first time after a crying session, I feel cleansed.
“Thank you,” I tell him as the sun goes down, and I can barely see his handsome face anymore.
“Art is all we have,” he says simply. “It’ll fix any heartache.”
“How do you know I have a heartache?”
My eyes are aimed down at a loose thread on my shorts when I ask the question. I’m not a great actor, but I’ve been trying to keep it together at least in front of them. Jesse is sensitive. Maybe he can see the obvious slice of my heart missing.
“Major can be an asshole,” he says with a chuckle before sobering up, “but I don’t think he’s able to crush you like that with one word. To be fair, I don’t think anyone can crush you. You’re resilient.”
A tired sigh leaves me. “I’m done being resilient. Sometimes I just want to fall apart.”
“You’re allowed to fall apart.”
“That’s all I’ve been doing since I got here.” The truth slips past my lips before I have time to catch it.
He’s just a silhouette in the dark. I can’t see his expression, but the silence is heavy between us. I don’t expect him to say anything, and when he whispers, “I’m sorry,” I know he means it.
“It’s okay.” My voice is small even for my ears. “Thank you for showing me around every day and giving me a reason to get out of bed.”
He has no idea how much I needed that. The silence stretches between us once again, and I shift uncomfortably with my confession sitting heavy on my heart. I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, nor did I want to drop my trauma into his lap. I want him to understand that crying doesn’t need to be just bad. Sometimes it’s freeing.Instead of explaining my convoluted feelings to this poor man, I get on my feet.
“I’ll start dinner.”
“I can cook,” he says, following me up.
“No, you all cook enough for me. It’s my turn. I’m not very good, but I can make spaghetti.”
That’s being generous. I grew up with cooks around at Grandpa’s estate, and I never had to learn, but he refused to eat gluten-free noodles, so this is a dish I had to make myself if I really wanted it. And of course, I wanted noodles more often than not.
“That sounds delicious,” he says, and I hear the amusement in his voice, which makes me relax a little.
He leaves me in the kitchen, and for an hour or so, all I do is prepare dinner while humming under my breath. When the sauce is ready, no one is home, so I decide to run for a quick shower and a change of clothes. Dinner will be nicer if I don’t smell like an animal barn.
My clothes have always been whimsical, but I forgot that after labor, I wouldn’t feel good wearing some tight dresses. Or feel festive enough for polka dots right after they took my child, but that’s all I have in my wardrobe. I definitely wasn’t thinking straight when I packed this bag. There’s nothing worse than having to shop for clothes when I’m already feeling this bad, and I bet Grandfather would hate to give me money for that anyway.
Thankfully, I don’t need new clothes. I’m almost back to my pre-pregnancy size. The shorts I put on today barely buttoned over my soft belly, but I don’t care much about anything but comfort.
I find a slip dress in soft silk with spaghetti straps that’s loose enough. It stretches a little too tight over my breasts. Even without a bra, there’s very little room for anything else, but damn, it's so comfortable that I don’t care. At least I’m not leaking like before. Itstill hurts, and my breasts are as hard as a rock, but it seems that my body took the hint. Sometimes I don’t know if it physically hurts or I’m just imagining the stabbing pain this close to my heart. Real or not, it’s my constant companion.
I make a bun with my wet hair, breaking all the curly hair rules, but I can’t deal with drying the whole thing right now. My arms are tired as they are, so I don’t want to add a diffuser to the mix.
When I come back to the kitchen, I find Jesse over the pot of sauce.
