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PART I
THE TWISTER
1. A WARNING
CHLOE
Thud. I took my knife from the hay wagon, slashed bailing twine like butter, and tossed neat hay flakes into a manger. While filing the blade away, I wipe my sweaty brow and took stock of what was left. Humidity hung hot in this unairconditioned barn where our field boarders and broodmares rested.
“That storm will be here in a couple of hours,” Fernando, my barn manager, called. “WGN posted something on the Ticky-Tok. You didn’t hear?”
“I have been too busy toiling,” I snickered. “I left that up to Mel this morning.”
“She knows everything, I guess,” Fernando chuckled.
Mel played social media manager. Long before I owned a barn or had a coveted publishing deal, I was an influencer. I left high school to make my way in brand deals and collabs. Some people shamed me for it, but not Mel. She’d been with me for a decade as my perpetual hype woman, my best friend, and my conscience. She played me for much of the day. That was the reality of super influencer life.
I brushed my sweaty strands back, my worn work gloves scratching delicate skin. “I gotta split in a minute. I have that party. Sorry.”
“That’s what Jerry said.” Fernando adjusted his Cubs hat. “He said he had to spend a good hour on his hair, so he needed to leave early.”
My working student, Jerry, came into our chaotic group chat after his series entitled “Barn Broadway”. I slid into his DM’s and invited him to move from Ocala to Chicago—an unlikely choice—but he’d been a reliable rider with our greenies. He had a fabulous leg, was a mare whisperer, remained unafraid to sit a buck, and dazzled with his song stylings. He was also by now a close friend and the type to relish a book release party.
“My kid is in the office. Send her down,” Fernando said. “She can help.”
“Will do,” I agreed.
I threw a few more flakes before entering the air-conditioned oasis where I tossed my work gloves in the bin Jerry labeled “Boss Lady” as a joke. Grabbing my purse, I travelled to the viewing room above the arena. There, I greeted a couple of horse show moms before seeing Emma, Fernando’s daughter, pouring over math homework.
“Ah, the quadratic equation,” I said, voice flat. “Scintillating.”
“Totally mid,” she sighed. “God, my algebra teacher is a disaster! He lives for dad jokes. Cringe. And he’s ancient.”
He was probably five years my senior, given the way my younger followers talked about those of us in our mid-thirties.
“Total bummer,” I said. “Emma, your dad is requesting assistance in the shedrow with the evening feed. Can you help him?”
“Ugh,” she groaned, packing her homework. “He works me to the bone.”
I disagreed, but didn’t argue.
Emma followed me back to the barn aisle. “That bag is so pretty. Where did you get it?”
“Delphine’s,” I answered.
“That’s going on my birthday list. I've been mucking stalls on weekends and am saving.”
“I know what your dad pays you,” I said. “And also that you should stick with math. I use it every day. Algebra—believe it or not—is your friend.”
“Ugh! You sound like my dad. He’s making me do this math class over the summer! He’s sending me to college.”
I grinned. “That’s good of him.”
“Is it?” Emma asked.
“It is. He knows how important math is.”
“He’s tough!”
