Page 48 of Unstable

THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up with such an overwhelming joy in my heart that I embrace the sun, shining in my eyes again, and take a second to appreciate the fact I’ve been graced with another day to enjoy it.

I’d had another extraordinary dream last night. This time I was talking to my mom. I don’t care if it was real or not—it felt real—it felt fantastic! She was right there, telling me she loved me and was so happy to see me starting to find my way back to the person I once was. And proud. She’d praised me for being strong, a survivor, asking that I give myself the same credit.

It was magical. Healing. The best thing that’s happened to me since the last time I actually spoke, kindly, to her.

I spring off the couch, more than ready for the day, actually looking forward to it. I take my time in the shower, reliving every word and moment of the dream, then get dressed, braid my hair and cook myself a real breakfast.

When I’m finished and step outside, a tremor runs through me. Call it wishful thinking, or reading things into what you desperately want to be true—but there’s definitely a new chill in the air. The first hint of the cold snap my mom told me about last night.

Soon it’ll be time to start feeding hay.

And also like she’d advised, it’s past time to have sold off some calves.

“Gatlin!” I yell, hoping he’s close by enough to hear me.

Bourbon is and comes ambling up, the first time he hasn’t already been waiting for me. “You’re moving kinda slow this morning, boy. You okay?”

His tail wags when I pet him, but not as fast as usual. Something’s off. I make a mental note to take him to the vet as soon as possible. He’s getting up there in years, and I have no idea when he last had a check-up.

I open my mouth to holler for Gatlin again, closing it when he comes out of the barn and walks up the driveway.

“Mornin’.” He smiles. “Little nippy today.”

“Noticed that. Got to thinking too, might go to the sale barn with some calves. Would you wanna help me with that?”

“Sure. When you planning on going, this weekend?”

“Good as time as any. We can leave early Saturday morning.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“We can fit what, twelve, in the trailer?” I ask as I cringe. Twelve at a time means a lot of trips to the sale, and I should’ve already started. Thank you, Mom, for getting me in gear.

“Yeah, about. You could probably squeeze in up to fifteen, be tight though.”

Three isn’t a big enough difference to jam ‘em in like sardines. Twelve a sale it is. Gotta start somewhere.

“Okay. So what are you working on today?” I ask, wondering the same thing of myself.

“Still gotta finish that fence. You busy?”

“Nope. Lemme grab a jacket, and I’ll be ready. Oh, and gloves,” I laugh. “Not a fan of smashing my thumbs. I’d like to avoid a repeat of that if possible.”

While we work, I catch him up on everything ping-ponging off the sides of my skull, hoping for some of his wise insight. Usually Gatlin’s full of philosophical speeches…but not today.

When I tell him about my dream, he smiles and merely says, “That’s wonderful, Henley.”

Then when I fill him in on the diary, Keaton, the story of the fight, and my sister’s approval, he just hums and answers with, “What’d I tell you? Good guy.”

Not giving up, I next delve into the saga of Merrick, all his deceit and phony love, to which he responds, “Prick. Sure Keaton will be beating his ass again soon for some reason,” never taking his eyes off his task.

And when I explain how Keaton doesn’t want me to go see Merrick alone, all I get is a chin-up and a “Don’t blame him there.”

I’m so frustrated by this point, I throw my hammer on the ground and grab both my hips. “Gatlin, is something wrong? You mad at me?”

He snaps his head my way, pulling the brim of his hat up out of his eyes. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

“Because,” I kick at the ground, my stare locked on the nervous action, “we usually talk, and you’re being short. I don’t think you’ve given a single reply all day that’s been more than five words long. I thought we were friends.”

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