His voice crackles, and a laugh slips out. My bag bumps over a metal latch in the bridge. I tug it harder. ‘Seriously, dude, what if this really was a dumb move? What if odds are actually pretty decent that she’s not here, and therearea million Julius Gutierrezes in Montana? Or if my memory’s ass and I completely fudged his name?’
‘That’s not true. May can attest to that,’ Colt reminds me.May, begrudgingly, was willing to confirm my suspicions. Jordan did have an uncle Julius on her mom’s side, and he did have a ranch in Montana, though she knew little more than that. It provided me a safety net about the size of my iPhone. I was not too reassured, and I’m still not. There’s a part of me that wants to tear into this town and find her and tell her I screwed up, but there’s also a part that’s terrified I’m setting foot into a corner of her life she doesn’t want me to see. Or, worse still, that she just doesn’t want to see me, at all.
‘Tell you what,’ continues Colt, ‘you call me later, because I’m pretty sure you’ll find it. Send me an update. Got it?’
‘Yeah.’ I gulp as I leave the airport, and the humid, warm air of the Helena afternoon washes over me. I’m reminded by the view that I’m closer to the mountains than anything else right now – there are quite literally peaks in the distance. The farthest out I’ve really been is Oklahoma, to visit Colt’s hometown, but I’ve never seen anything like this before. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’
‘Good luck, man.’
Colt’s voice goes quiet in my AirPods, and I pull them from my ears, stick them in the case, and shove it in the side pocket of my backpack. My ride-share pulls up soon enough, a silver sedan, and I double-check the address. I’ll be staying in Helena itself, which puts me maybe thirty minutes from Casas Creek. It took a night’s worth of deep googling to find the place, but I’m sure that has to be it. There was one singular photo of Julius Gutierrez in the newspaper, literally scanned in, printed in gritty colour, but it was unmistakable: Jordan’s eyes, her nose. It’s got to be this place, and if it’s not, I don’t know what I’ll do.
As I sit through the ride in silence, that’s what I think about. I’ve never had anyone pull me from the deep, dark headspaceI fall into the way that Jordan has – even if it’s the thought of potentially losing her because of my own stupidity. No one has vowed to stand by me and my shortcomings, my good days and my bad, like she had. She justgotit. Was willing to accept me as I am: no changes, no fixing.
I watch the distant mountains pass by through the windows, eventually giving way to the larger city of Helena, literally nestled within the geography all around us. It’s absolutely beautiful. I can start to understand why Jordan would want to come here, tucked into the land on four sides, safe and sound.
We pull up to my hotel just a few minutes later, and I make sure to leave a generous tip on the app. I check in, and the room, I find, has a stunning view of those same mountains, so that I can see the way the city folds into their towering slopes.
I push my backpack under the desk and leave my suitcase to one side, opening the sliding doors so I can step out onto the balcony. The air feels fresher than it does humid now, maybe because the airplane exhaust isn’t stifling it out here, or because I’m higher up. The spires of the cathedral rise high in the distance, a landmark I’d made out when I was on the plane.
My palms are clammy on the rail of the balcony. I let out a breath through my mouth, both reassured and confused. Within twenty-four hours, I could either have all the answers, or go home accepting that this is the mess I’ve made, and I’ll have to live with it.
I run a hand through my hair, fingers snagging on a wave here and there. When I remove my hand, I notice the neat row of hairbands on my wrist, forming faint indents in the skin beneath: two for Tali, both black, and one hot pink. Jordan’s.
My fingers skim the fabric covering the elastic, and as I lookout across the skyline, the words leave my lips on a whisper, a plea I hope will travel on the breeze till it reaches her.
‘Where are you, Jor?’
The drive into Casas Creek, another ride-share, this one with a phone call about a grocery mishap setting the tune for the journey, is astounding.
It sort of reminds me of Prosperity, where Colt grew up. You’d take a highway out from Oklahoma City to get there, and as you drove, the city faded out, making way for rolling fields and grazing cattle. This is slightly similar, but much different. Owing to the way Helena is practically set into a nest formed by mountains, city limits are very obvious. As we head down towards the exit for a town that’s decidedly not Casas Creek, probably the way through, things go eerily quiet – quieter than Oklahoma.
The driver takes us through a country road that weaves in and out of a small town festooned with colourful awnings and flower shops, past a tractor supply, and back out, until we’re churning down the path towards the middle of nowhere. About ten minutes in, a green city sign appears.CASAS CREEK. POP. 914.
I clutch my water bottle tight in my lap. This could be it, this could be her. And it’s only been a week or so, but I really don’t think I’m prepared for this. What can I even say to mend the fences? That I didn’t mean it? It sounds pathetic in my head. I exhale and look out the window as the town starts to appear.
It’s not as charming as Colt’s Prosperity, and nowhere near the kind of cutesy that the flower shops were. Instead, it’s patchwork, bumpy roads, houses here and there, two storeys,small. A couple of mobile homes in a small park. Farmland, ranch land. Animals, barns in the distance. It only takes a few turns before the wood sign denotingCASAS CREEK RANCHhanging overhead signals my intended destination.
I remember Jordan mentioning those three hundred head of cattle out here, but beyond that, it’s evident that it’shuge. The property is easily three times the size of Genny’s, the big house up ahead standing at the centre of a widespread cluster of various barns and paddocks, grazing land, fences. Most stunning is the fact that it’s all set in this backdrop of mountains, even more so than the city. As I look back from the house, further past the paddocks, it’s all rolling, craggy gold and green, and then snow-capped peaks rising in the distance.
‘I can let you out here,’ the driver tells me, pulling up at the big house. There are no vehicles on the driveway, no sounds to speak of. I can hear the roar of a truck somewhere out to my left, and mooing is probably the only other sound I can really make out, but the house looks empty. I scratch the back of my neck as I thank my driver and select the tip on my app. When I look out behind me, he’s already pulling away.
‘Awesome,’ I mutter under my breath. I brush my clammy palms against my jeans and tuck my phone in my pocket. I probably stick out like a sore thumb here. All I have is my backpack, inside which sits exactly two things: my wallet and Jordan’s tumbler.
With no other direction, I start up the driveway of the house. Gravel crunches under my sneakers, and then solid sidewalk as I make for the door. The doorbell is a white-frosted button set into an old-fashioned gold frame, which I press, and I can hear the three-toned chime play inside.
As I wait, potentially in vain, I look around for any clues, anything that might give away Jordan’s presence. The grass is pretty neatly trimmed, flowers planted out front, also neat, with a little garden flag in the patch: MONTANA UNIVERSITY FOOTBALL, with a moose logo. Someone’s attached a piece of masking tape to the bottom of it, with big, lively handwriting dancing across in permanent marker. AND LACROSSE!
My throat grows tight, my hands shaking despite the fact that the last coffee I had was hours ago, early in the morning. The feeling is both dreaded and welcome.
It’s her. It has to be.
To my total shock, the door creaks open, and then the screen out front. A soft-eyed, middle-aged woman with brown hair thrown into a ponytail stands at the threshold. She wears a plaid button-up with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and a pair of skinny blue jeans. Her feet are slipped into fuzzy house shoes.
The gentle crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes crease, maybe in confusion. ‘Hi. Can I help you?’
‘Are you, um …’ My voice trails off to a croak. ‘Is this the Gutierrez ranch?’
‘Yeah.’ She cocks her head, a strand of hair falling across the side of her face. Her blue eyes narrow analytically. ‘Who’s askin’?’
