Page 10 of Unstable

THE NEXT THING I know, morning’s first blinding light is blaring through the uncovered windows and rudely awakening me. Seems the fondness for drapes, so proudly boasted in the kitchen, never quite reached the living room. What I’d give for some sun-blocking chickens right now.

I don’t remember falling asleep last night, but as I come fully to and sit up on the couch, I do recall this being the last place I sat down. I just couldn’t bring myself to climb the stairs that led to the bedrooms the night before, so I’d made a sandwich for dinner, plopped down right here…and obviously never left.

After a shower in the downstairs bathroom and still no desire to venture any farther into the bowels of the empty, eerily quiet house, I grab an apple from the kitchen and head outside.

“Morning, Bourbon.” I can’t help but smile as I pet his head. It feels nice to be greeted, important, the first person he wanted to see this morning—a loyal companion whose wagging tail tells me he’s just as happy to see me as I am him.

I can still remember the wide-eyed look of shock on my mother’s face when we told her we wanted to name the mangy mutt who’d just shown up one day “Bourbon.” Our prize horse had come already dubbed with the name “Whiskey” when we bought him, so the correlation made sense to her…it was the part about us knowing what Bourbon was, and how we made the connection, that had surprised her.

We had no clue what Bourbon actually was, but we were old enough to guess it had something to do with whiskey. And as it tends to go with mothers, she wanted to keep herself under the misconception we’d be forever clueless to anything outside of cartoons and stuffed animals.

The name had been the suggestion of one of the men helping on the farm at the time, and had earned a round of chuckles and agreement from the other hands, so we went with it. The “idea man’s” name isn’t coming to me now…and hadn’t left my mouth back then either, much to my mom’s frustration. She’d wanted to chew on someone for it, but no one seemed to know a thing about it. Talk about being madder than a wet hen. Mom had strutted around, clucking her tongue and stewing on that mystery for days.

“That’s a beautiful sound. Man could find himself addicted he’s not careful.” Gatlin appears out of thin air, startling me. “Want to share what’s got you laughing this morning?"

I school my mouth into a tight line. I hadn’t realized the memory had pulled a laugh from me, and I certainly hadn’t known I had an uninvited audience for the rare moment.

“Anyone ever told you it’s creepy to always be sneaking up on people?” I ask in a chilled tone.

“So, walking across the yard, in broad daylight, is that where the sneaking part came in?” He cocks his head and challenges me with a grin. “Guess I always pictured sneaking with more tuck and rolls, some crouching, maybe the Bond theme music playing in the background.”

I turn my head so he doesn’t see my mouth twitch.

“Next time, I’ll walk straight up the driveway, screaming and waving my arms, I promise.” I now look at him, making sure he sees my eyes roll, but he just chuckles. “Now that we got all that settled, and it’s obvious you aren’t gonna tell me why you were laughing, do you mind if I ask where you were headed?”

“I hadn’t figured it out yet, just needed some fresh air to clear my head. There’s," I gaze out across the seemingly endless fields and let loose a brooding sigh, “so much to decide. I don’t know where to start.”

Sharing even that one secret thought, worry, with him goes against every barrier I’ve worked so hard to build around me and has me feeling vulnerable on impact. But at the same time…is oddly cathartic. A huge wall just came crashing down and…everything was fine, no one crushed beneath the rubble. Hmm.

“I don’t suppose I could talk you into a ride around the grounds? Might be nice to get reacquainted with the lay of the land, see exactly what you’re dealing with.” He hitches one shoulder, attempting a nonchalant suggestion…and failing, miserably.

“Ride?” I shriek. “As in, on a horse?” My head’s shaking frantically from side to side as I back up, beads of nervous sweat popping up on my brow and neck.

He holds both hands up and out in front of him then takes a few, timid steps my way. “Okay, okay, Henley, just, take a deep breath. I get it, too soon.”

He knows. I smother a small, facetious laugh. Of course he knows, Henley. Everyone in a three county radius does.

“There’s more than one way to get around a farm. We could take your truck, or—”

“How about that?” I interrupt him and point to the old red barn directly across the driveway and the utility vehicle parked on the side of it. Looks like a Gator brand from here, pretty pricey to leave parked outside. Then again, they didn’t know they weren’t ever coming back to move it inside.

“Great idea, let’s go. I’ll even let you drive.” Gatlin’s agreement is spoken fast, and louder than anything else I’ve heard him say. Not excited exactly, more like he read the melancholy direction my thoughts were heading, and wanted to nip them in the bud before I changed my mind altogether.

“I’ve been using it,” he adds, somehow knowing how to dissuade my sadness.

His plan worked, because he certainly trained my attention elsewhere. Let me drive, he says.

I stomp my way to the vehicle and climb in the driver’s seat, wondering if he’s going to hand me the keys before, or after, I explain his little faux pas to him, when I hear them jingle. My knee bumped them, still in the ignition, as I settled behind the wheel.

And suddenly, the lecture I was about to dish up regarding his delusions that he’s ever even in the realm of letting me do anything no longer seems important.

Because when I look at the keys, there, with them, hangs a gold “H” keychain.

Why? Why go out of your way to keep an unnecessary, constant reminder of all you lost and the person who took it from you?

I rub the shiny metal between my thumb and forefinger, jagged shards of memories, both happy and sad, slicing through my mind. “I don't think I can do this.” I swallow down a sob. Tears fix nothing, I learned that a long time ago. “I shouldn’t be here. I…I need to leave, go back where I belong.” I’m talking to myself, but I’m doing it aloud, so Gatlin obviously hears and hushes me with a firm grip on my knee.

“Henley, there’s nowhere else you belong more than here. And you can do this. You were born to do this. Very seldom does anyone get to write every chapter of their journey. Life, chance, fate…whatever you want to call it, does that for us. Even when you think you’re in charge, plotting along, destiny throws in twists and turns you never see coming and can’t undo. But, you can damn sure try to write the ending, and keep trying, until the very end. Take it back, Henley. Take back your life and fight like hell to write the best ending you can with what you’re given.” His serene smile holds endless depth, just like his speech, both underlined with a surety I’m tempted to find contagious.

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